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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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STRANGERS   AND  PILGRIMS. 


STRANGERS  AND  PILGRIMS 


">^A.j^«//,7??rs-  777a  rt/QlzJiU-l^ 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

•LADY  AUDLEFS   SECRET,"  "AURORA    FLOTD" 

£IC.  ETC.  £TC. 


"  Egypt,  thou  knewst  too  well. 

My  heart  wm  to  thy  redder  tied  by  the  strings. 
And  thou  ehouldst  tow  uic  after  ;  o'er  my  spirit 
Thy  full  supremacy  thou  knewst ;  and  that 
Thy  beck  misrht  from  the  bidding  ci  tl.e  goda 
Cuiuiuuiid  lut)." 


Sifrwtptii  ^iiitiiin 


LONDON 
JOHN    AND    ROBEKT    MAXWELL 

4,   SHOE  LANE,    FLEEX   SIKEEI 
[AVi  righXa  rccrri'ed.j 


e> 


STRANGEKS  AND  PILGRIMS. 


9SooU  t^f  jFirat. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 
That  makes  simplicity  a  grace  ; 
Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free  ; 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 
Than  aU  the  adulteries  of  art ; 
They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart." 

The  scene  was  an  ancient  orchard  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  in  the 
far  west  of  England  :  an  orchard  bounded  on  one  side  by  an  old- 
fashioned  garden,  where  roses  and  carnations  were  blooming  in 
their  summer  glory;  and  on  the  other  by  a  ponderous  red-brick 
wall,  heavily  buttressed,  and  with  a  moat  at  its  outer  base — a 
wall  that  had  been  built  for  the  protection  of  a  more  important 
habitation  than  Hawleigh  Yicarage.  Time  was  when  the  green 
slope  where  the  rugged  apple-trees  spread  their  crooked  limbs  in 
the  sunshine  was  a  prim  pleasance,  and  when  the  hill  was  crowned 
by  the  grim  towers  of  Hawleigh  Castle.  But  the  civil  wars 
made  an  end  of  the  gothic  towers  and  machicolated  galleries 
that  had  weathered  maiiy  a  storm,  and  nothing  was  now  left 
save  a  remnant  of  the  old  wall,  and  one  solitary  tower,  to  which 
some  archeologically-minded  vicar  in  time  past  had  joined  the 
modest  parsonage  of  Hawleigh  parish.  This  was  a  low  white 
building,  of  the  farmhouse  type,  large  and  roomy,  with  bow- 
windows  to  some  of  the  lower  rooms,  and  diamond-paned  case- 
ments to  others.  In  this  western  land  of  warm  rains  and  flowers 
the  myrtles  and  roses  climbed  to  the  steeply- sloping  roof,  and 
every  antique  casement  was  set  in  a  frame  of  foliage  and  blossom. 
It  was  not  a  mansion  which  a  modern  architect  would  have  been 


2  Strangers  and  Pilgrimi% 

proud  to  liave  built,  by  any  means,  but  a  dwelling-place  witb 
whicli  a  painter  or  a  poet  would  have  fallen  madly  in  love  at 
first  sight. 

There  were  pigeons  cooing  and  boop-boop-booping  among  the 
moss-grown  corljels  of  the  tower ;  a  blackbird  in  a  wicker  cage 
hanging  outside  one  of  the  narrow  windows;  a  skylark  in  a 
little  green  wooden  brtc  decorating  another,  llie  garden  where 
the  roses  and  carnations  flourished  had  somewhat  of  a  neglected 
look,  not  weedy  or  forlorn,  only  a  little  unkempt  and  over-luxu- 
riant, like  a  garden  to  which  the  hireling  gardener  comes  once 
a  week,  or  which  is  left  to  the  charge  of  a  single  outdoor 
labourer,  who  has  horses  and  pigs  upon  his  mind,  nay  perhajis 
also  the  daily  distraction  of  indoor  duties,  in  the  boot-and- 
knife-cleaning  way. 

Perhaps,  looking  at  the  subject  from  a  purely  poetical  point 
of  view,  no  garden  should  ever  be  better  kept  than  that  garden 
at  Hawleigh.  What  ribbon-bordering,  or  artistically  variegated 
mosaic  of  lobelia,,  and  petunia,  and  calceolaria,  and  verbena, 
could  ever  eqnal  the  wild  beauty  of  roses  that  grew  at  their  own 
sweet  will  against  a  background  of  seriuga  and  arbutus — shrubs 
that  must  have  been  planted  by  some  unknown  benefactor  in  the 
remote  past,  for  no  incumbent  of  late  years  had  ever  been  known 
to  plant  anything?  What  prim  platter-like  circles  of  well- 
behaved  bedding-out  plants,  spick  nnd  span  from  the  green- 
house, could  charm  the  sense  like  the  various  and  yet  familiar 
old-world  flowers  that  filled  the  long  wide  borders  in  Parson 
Luttrell's  flower-garden  ? 

Of  this  small  domain  about  half  an  acre  consisted  of  meadow- 
like grass,  not  often  improved  by  the  roller,  and  sometimes 
permitted  to  flourish  in  rank  luxuriance  ankle-deep.  The  girls 
— that  is  to  say,  Wilmot  Luttrell's  four  daughters — managed  to 
play  croquet  upon  that  greensward  nevertheless,  being  at  the 
croquet-playing  stage  of  existence,  whesi  a  young  woman  hard 
driven  would  play  croquet  in  an  empty  coal-cellar.  Near  the 
house  the  grass  assumed  form  and  dignity,  and  was  bordered  by 
a  rugged  sweep  of  loose-gravel,  called  the  carriage  drive;  and 
just  opposite  the  drawing-room  windows  there  stood  an  ancient 
stone  sun  dial,  on  which  the  ladies  of  Hawleigh  Castle  had 
marked  the  slow  passage  of  the  empty  hours  in  centuries  gone 
by.  Only  a  hedge  of  holly  divided  the  garden  from  a  strip  of 
waste  land  that  bordered  the  dusty  high-road  ;  but  a  row  of  fine 
old  elms  grew  on  that  intervening  strip  of  grass,  and  secured 
the  Luttrell  damsels  from  the  gaze  of  the  vulgar. 

But  for  seclusion,  for  the  sweet  sense  of  utter  solitude  and 
retirement,  the  orchard  was  best — that  undulating  slope  of 
mossy  turf,  cropped  close  by  occasional  sheep,  which  skirted  the 
flower-garden,  and  stretched  away  to  the  rear  of  the  low  white 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  3 

house.  The  very  wall,  crowned  with  gaudj  dragon's-mouth,  and 
creeping  yellow  stone-crop,  was  in  itself  a  picture;  and  in  the 
shelter  of  this  wall,  which  turned  its  stalwart  old  back  to  the 
west,  was  the  nicest  spot  for  an  afternoon's  idleness  over  a  new 
book,  or  the.worthless  scrap  of  lace  or  muslin  which  constituted 
the  last  mania  in  the  way  of  fancy-work.  Thi?,  at  least,  was 
■what  Elizabeth  Luttrell  said  of  the  old  wall,  and  as  she  had 
been  born  and  reared  for  the  nineteen  years  of  her  young  life 
at  Hawleigh,  she  was  a  tolerable  judge  of  the  capabilities  of 
garden  and  orchard.  She  sits  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  this 
June  afternoon  alone,  with  an  unread  book  in  her  lap. 

Elizabeth  Luttrell  is  the  beauty  of  a  family  in  which  all 
the  daughters  are  or  have  been  handsome — the  peerless  flower 
among  four  fair  sisters,  who  are  renowned  through  this  part  of 
the  western  world  as  the  pretty  Miss  Luttrells. 

About  Gertrude  the  eldest,  or  Diana  the  second,  or  Blanche 
the  youngest,  there  might  be  differences  of  opinion — a  question 
raised  as  to  the  length  of  Gertrude's  nose,  a  doubt  as  to  the 
width  of  Diana's  mouth,  a  schism  upon  the  merits  of  Blanche's 
figure;  but  the  third  daughter  of  the  house  of  Luttrell  was 
simply  perfect;  you  could  no  more  dispute  her  beauty  than  that 
of  the  Florentine  Venus. 

What  a  picture  she  made  upon  this  midsummer  afternoon,  as 
she  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  ruddy  old  wall,  in  a  holland  dress, 
and  with  a  blue  ribbon  twisted  in  her  hair,  profile  of  face  and 
figure  in  full  relief  against  the  warm  background,  every  line  the 
perfection  of  grace  and  beauty,  every  hue  and  every  curve  a 
study  for  a  painter !  O,  if  among  all  the  splendid  fashion-plates 
in  the  Royal  Academy — the  duchess  in  black-velvet  train  and 
point-lace  flounces  and  scarlet-silk  peticoat  and  diamonds;  the 
marchioness  in  blue  satin  and  blonde  and  pearls :  the  countess  in 
white  silk  and  azaleas;  the  viscountess  in  tulle  and  rose-lnuls — 
if  in  this  feast  of  millinery  Elizabeth  Luttrell  could  but  shine 
forth,  sitting  by  the  old  orchard  wall  in  her  washed-out  holland 
gown,  what  a  revelation  that  fresh  young  beauty  would  seem  ! 

It  was  not  a  rustic  beauty,  however — not  a  loveliness  created 
to  be  dressed  in  white  muslin  and  to  adorn  a  cottage — but 
splendid  rather,  and  worthy  to  rule  the  heart  of  a  great  man. 
Nose,  a  small  acquiline ;  eyes,  that  darkly-clear  gray  which  ip 
some  lights  deepens  to  violet;  complexion,  a  warm  brunette; 
forehead,  low  and  broad ;  hair  of  the  darkest  brown,  with  ruddy 
golden  beams  lurking  in  its  crisp  waves — hair  which  is  in  itself 
almost  a  sufficient  justification  for  any  young  woman  to  setup 
as  a  beauty,  if  her  stock-in-trade  were  no  more  than  those  dark- 
brown  tresses,  those  delicately-arched  brows  and  upward  curling 
lashes.  In  all  the  varying  charms  of  expression,  as  well  as  in 
regularity  of  feature,  Nature  has  gifted  Elizabeth  Luttrell  with 


4  tStrangers  and  Pilgrims. 

a  lavisli  hand.  She  is  the  crystallisation  of  centuries  of  dead* 
and-^^one  Luttrells,  all  more  or  less  beautiful;  for  the  race  ia 
one  that  can  boast  of  good  looks  as  a  family  heritage. 

She  sirs  alone  by  the  old  wall,  the  western  sunlight  shining 
through  the  red  and  yellow  flowers  of  the  dragon's-mouth  above 
her  head;  sits  alone,  with  loosely-linked  hands  lying  idle  in  her 
iap,  and  fixed  dreaming  eyes.  It  is  nearly  an  hour  since  she 
has  turned  a  leaf  of  her  book,  when  a  ringing  soprano  voice 
calHng  her  name,  and  a  shower  of  rose  leaves  thrown  across  her 
face,  scare  away  her  day-dreams. 

She  looks  up  impatiently,  angrily  even,  at  Blanche,  the 
hoyden  of  the  family,  who  stands  above  her  on  the  steep  grassy 
slope,  with  a  basket  of  dilapidated  roses  on  her  arm.  The 
damsel,  incorrigibly  idle  ahke  by  nature  and  habit,  has  been 
seized  with  an  industrious  fit,  and  has  been  clipping  and  trim- 
ming the  roses. 

"  What  a  lazy  creature  you  are,  Lizzie !  "  she  exclaims.  "  I 
thought  you  wee  going  to  put  the  ribbons  on  your  mushn  dress 
for  this  evening." 

"  I  wish  you'd  be  good  enough  to  concern  yourself  about  your 
own  clothes,  Bkinche,  and  leave  mine  alone.  And  please  don't 
come  screaming  at  me  when  I'm — asleep." 

"  You  weren't  asleep ;  your  eyes  were  ever  so  wide  open. 
You  were  thinking — I  can  guess  what  about — and  smiling  at 
your  own  thoughts.  I  wish  I  had  anything  as  nice  to  think 
about.  That's  the  worst  of  having  a  handsome  sister.  How 
can  I  suppose  that  any  one  will  ever  take  any  notice  of  poor 
little  me?" 

"  Upon  my  honour,  Blanche,  I  beHeve  you  are  the  most  pro- 
voking girl  in  creation  !  " 

"  You  can't  believe  that,  for  you  don't  know  all  the  girls  in 
creation." 

"  One  of  the  most,  then ;  but  that  comes  of  sending  a  girl  to 
school.     You  have  all  the  schoolgirl  vulgarities." 

"I'm  sure  I  didn't  want  to  go  to  Miss  Derwent's,  Lizzie.  It 
was  Gertrude's  fault,  making  such  a  fuss  about  me,  and  setting 
papa  at  me.     I'd  much  rather  have  run  wild  at  home." 

"  I  think  you'd  run  -^fild  anywhere,  in  a  convent,  even." 

"  I  daresay  I  should ;  but  that's  not  the  question.  I  want  to 
know  if  you're  going  to  wear  your  clean  white  mushn,  because 
my  own  toilet  hinges  on  your  decision.  It's  a  serious  matter  for 
girls  who  are  allowed  only  one  clean  muslin  a  week." 

"I  don't  know;  perhaps  I  shall  wear  my  blue,"  replies 
Elizabeth,  with  a  careless  air,  pretending  to  read. 

"  You  won't  do  anything  of  the  kind.  It's  ever  so  tumbled^ 
Hnd  I  know  you  like  to  look  nice  when  Mr.  Fordeis  here.  You're 
Buch  a  mean  girl,  Elizabeth  Luttrell.    You  pretend  not  to  car« 


Strangers  and  Pil^rimo.  6 

a  straw  how  yon  dress,  and  dawdle  here  making  believe  to  read 
that  stupid  old  volume  of  travels  to  the  Victoria  Thingerabob, 
which  the  old  fogies  of  the  book-club  choose  for  us,  instead  of 
some  jolly  novel;  and  when  we've  put  on  our  veriest  rags  you'll 
scamper  up  the  back- stairs  just  at  the  last  moment,  and  comt^ 
down  a  quarter  of  au  hour  after  he  has  come,  all  over  crisp 
muslin  flounces  and  fresh  pink  ribbons,  just  as  if  you'd  a  French 
milliner  at  your  beck  and  call." 

"I  really  can't  help  it  if  I  know  how  to  put  on  my  things  a 
little  better  than  you  and  Diana.  I'm  sure  Gertrude  is  always 
nicely  dressed." 

"  Yes,  Gertrude  has  the  brand  of  Cain— Gertrude  is  a  born 
old  maid ;  one  can  see  it  in  her  neck-ribbons  and  top-knots. 
Now,  how  about  the  white  muslin  ?  " 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  worry,  Blanche;  I  shall  wear  exactly 
what  I  please.  I  will  not  be  pestered  by  a  younger  sister. 
What's  the  time?" 

The  fourth  Miss  Luttrell  drags  a  little  Geneva  silver  watch 
from  her  belt  by  a  black  ribbon — a  silver  watch  presented  to  her 
by  her  father  on  her  fifteenth  birthday — to  be  exchanged  for  a 
gold  one  at  some  indefinite  period  of  the  Vicar's  existence,  when 
a  gleam  of  prosperity  shall  brighten  the  dull  level  of  his  finan- 
cial career.  He  has  given  similar  watches  to  all  his  daughters 
on  their  fifteenth  birthdays;  but  Lizzie's  lies  forgotten  amongst 
disabled  brooches  and  odd  earrings  in  a  trinket-box  on  her 
dressing-table.  Elizabeth  Luttrell  does  not  care  to  note  the 
progress  of  her  days  on  a  pale-faced  Geneva  time-piece,  value 
something  under  five  pounds. 

"  Half-past  five  by  me,"  says  Blanche. 

"  Are  you  twenty  minutes  slow,  or  twenty  minutes  fast  r  '^ 

"Well,  I  believe  I'm  five-and-twenty  minutes  slow." 

"  Then  I  shall  come  to  dress  in  half  an  hour.  I  wish  you'd 
iust  tack  those  pink  bows  on  my  dress,  Blanche  —  you're 
evidently  at  a  loss  for  something  to  do." 

"Just  tack,"  repeats  the  younger  sister  with  a  wry  face; 
"  you  mean  sew  them  on,  I  suppose.  That's  like  people  asking 
you  to  '  touch '  the  bell,  when  you're  comfortably  coiled  up  in  an 
easy-chair  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  It  sounds  less  than 
asking  one  to  ring  it;  but  one  has  to  disturb  oneself  all  the 
same.  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  sew  on  your  own  ribbons ; 
and  I'm  dead  tired — I've  been  standing  in  the  broiling  sun  for 
the  last  hour,  trimming  the  roses,  and  trying  to  make  the  garden 
look  a  little  decent." 

"0,  very  well;  I  can  get  my  dress  ready  myself,"  says 
Elizabeth  with  a  grand  air,  not  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  volume 
in  which  she  struggles  vainly  to  follow  the  current  of  the  Vic- 
toria Njanza.    Has  not  Malcolm  Forde  expressed  a  respectful 


6  t^trangers  and  Pilgrims, 

wish  that  she  were  a  little  less  vague  in  her  notions  of  all  that 
vast  worldwhich  lies  beyond  the  market- town  and  rustic  suburbs 
of  Hawleigh  ? 

"Don't  be  offended,  Lizzie;  you  know  I  always  do  anything 
you  ask  me.     "Where  are  the  ribbons  ?  " 

"  In  the  left-hand  to^D  drawer.  Be  sure  you  don't  tumble  my 
bounces." 

"  I'll  take  care.  I'm  so  glad  you're  going  to  wear  your  white  : 
/or  now  I  can  wear  mine  \vithout  Gerti'ude  grumbling  about  my 
extravagance  in  beginning  a  clean  muslin  at  the  end  of  the  week ; 
as  if  people  with  any  pretence  to  refinement  ever  made  any  dif- 
ference in  their  gowns  at  the  end  of  the  week — as  if  anybody 
but  utter  barbarians  would  go  grubby  because  it  was  Friday  oi 
Saturday !     Mind  you  come  up-stairs  in  time  to  dress,  Lizzie." 

"  I  shall  be  ready,  child.  The  people  are  not  to  be  here  till 
seven." 

*'  Tlie  people !  as  if  you  cared  one  straw  about  Jane  Harrison 
or  Laura  Melvin  and  that  preposterous  brother  of  hers ! " 

"  You  manage  to  flirt  with  the  preposterous  brother,  at  any 
rate,"  says  Lizzie,  still  looking  down  at  her  book. 

"  0,  one  must  get  one's  hand  in  somehow.  And  as  if  thei-e 
were  any  choice  of  a  subject  in  this  God-forsaken  place  !" 

"  Blanche,  how  can  you  use  such  horrid  expressions  ?" 

"But  it  is  God-forsaken.  I  heard  Captain  Fielding  call  it  so 
the  other  day." 

"  You  are  always  picking  up  somebody's  phrases.  Do  go  and 
tack  on  those  ribbons,  or  I  shall  have  to  do  it  myself." 

"And  that  would  be  a  calamity,"  cries  Blanche,  laughing, 
"when  there  is  anybody  else  whose  services  you  can  utilise  !" 

It  was  one  of  the  golden  rules  of  Elizabeth  Luttrell's  life  that 
she  should  never  do  anything  for  herself  which  she  could  get  any 
one  else  to  do  for  her.  What  was  the  good  of  having  three 
unmarried  sisters — all  plainer  than  one's  self — unless  one  made 
some  use  of  them  P  She  herself  had  grown  up  like  a  flower,  as 
beautiful  and  as  useless ;  not  to  toil  or  spin — only  to  be  admired 
and  cherished  as  a  type  of  God-given  idle  loveliness. 

That  her  beauty  was  to  be  profitable  to  herself  and  to  the 
world  by-and-by  in  some  large  way,  she  regarded  as  an  inevitable 
consequence  of  her  existence.  She  had  troubled  herself  very 
little  about  the  future;  had  scarcely  chafed  against  the  narrow 
bounds  of  her  daily  life.  That  certainty  of  high  fortune  awaiting 
her  in  the  coming  years  supported  and  sustained  her.  In  the 
meanwhile  she  lived  her  life — a  life  not  altogether  devoid  of 
delight,  but  into  which  the  element  of  passion  had  not  yet  entered. 

Even  in  so  dull  a  place  as  Hawleigh  there  were  plenty  of  ad- 
mirers for  such  a  girl  as  Elizabeth  Luttrell.  She  had  drunk 
freely  of  the  nectar  of  praise;  knew  the  full  measure  of  her 


Slranger      nd  Pihjrims. 


beauty,  and  felt  that  slic  w;is  bcnnid  tu  conquer.  All  the  li_ttl(3 
victories,  the  trivial  flirtations  of  the  present,  were,  in  her  mind, 
mere  child's  play ;  but  they  served  to  give  some  variety  to  an 
existence  which  would  have  been  intolerably  monotonous  with- 
out them. 

She  went  on  rjading,  or  trying  to  read,  for  half  an  hour  after 
Blanche  had  skipped  up  the  green  slope  where  the  apple-trees 
spread  a  fantastic  carpert  of  light  and  shade  in  the  afternoon  sun- 
shine ;  she  tried  her  hardest  to  chain  her  thoughts  to  that  book 
of  African  travel,  but  the  Victoria  Nyanza  eluded  her  like  a 
will-o'-the-wisp.  Her  thoughts  went  back  to  a  little  scene  under 
an  avenue  of  ancient  limes  in  Hawleigh-road— a  scene  that  had 
been  acted  only  a  few  hours  ago.  It  was  not  very  much  to 
think  of :  only  an  accidental  meeting  with  her  father's  curate, 
Malcolm  Forde;  only  a  little  commonplace  talk  about  theparisli 
and  the  choir,  the  early  services,  and  the  latest  volumes  obtain- 
able at  the  Hawleigh  book-club. 

Mr.  Luttrell  had  employed  four  curates  since  Lizzie's  six- 
teenth birthday  ;  and  the  first,  second,  and  third  of  these  young 
Levites  had  been  Lizzie's  devoted  slaves.  It  had  become  an 
established  rule  that  the  curate — Mr.  Luttrell  could  only  afford 
one,  though  there  were  two  churches  in  his  duty — should  fall 
madly  in  love  with  Elizabeth.  But  the  fourth  curate  was  of 
a  different  stuff  from  the  material  out  of  which  the  three  sim- 
pering young  gentlemen  fresh  from  college  were  created.  Mal- 
colm Forde  was  five-and-thirty  years  of  age ;  a  man  who  had 
been  a  soldier,  and  who  had  taken  up  tliis  new  service  from 
conviction  ;  a  man  who  possessed  an  income  amply  sufficient  for 
his  own  simple  needs,  and  in  no  way  looked  to  the  Church  as  an 
honourable  manner  of  solving  the  great  enigma  of  how  a  gentle, 
man  is  to  maintain  himself  in  this  world.  He  was  a  Christian 
in  the  purest  and  widest  sense  of  the  word;  an  earnest  thinker, 
an  indefatigable  worker ;  an  enthusiast  upon  all  subjects  relating 
to  his  beloved  Church. 

To  such  a  man  as  this  all  small  flirtations  and  girlish  follies 
must  needs  appear  trivial  in  the  extreme;  but  Mr.  Forde  was 
not  a  prig,  nor  was  he  prone  to  parade  his  piety  before  the  eyes 
of  the  world.  So  he  fell  into  the  ways  of  Hawleigh  with  con- 
summate ease:  played  croquet  with  the  mallet  of  a  master; 
disliked  high-jinks  and  grandiose  entertainments  at  rich  people's 
houses,  but  was  not  above  an  impromptu  picnic  with  Jiis  intimate 
associates,  a  gipsy-tea  in  Everton  wood,  or  a  friendly  musical 
evening  at  the  parsonage.  He  had  little  time  to  devote  to  such 
relaxations,  but  did  not  disdain  them  on  occasion. 

At  the  outset  of  their  acquaintance  the  four  Luttrell  girls 
vowed  they  should  always  be  afraid  of  him,  that  those  dreadful 
cold  grey  eyes  of  his  made  them  feel  uncomfortable. 


8  tStrangers  and  i'ilgrim*. 

"  Wlien  he  looks  at  me  in  tliat  grave  searching  way,  I  posi« 
lively  feel  myself  the  wickedest  creature  in  the  world,"  cried 
Diana,  who  was  of  a  sprightly  disposition,  and  prone  to  a  candid 
confession  of  all  her  weaknesses.  "  How  I  should  hate  to  marry 
such  a  man !  It  would  be  like  being  perpetually  brought  face  to 
face  with  one's  conscience." 

"  I  think  a  woman's  husband  ought,  in  a  manner,  to  represent 
her  conscience,"  said  Gertrude,  who  was  nine-and-twenty,  and 
prided  herself  upon  being  serious-minded.  "  At  least  I  should 
like  to  see  all  my  faults  and  follies  reflected  in  my  husband's 
face,  and  to  grow  out  of  them  by  his  influence." 

"What  a  hard  time  your  husband  would  have  of  it,  Gerty!  " 
exclaimed  the  flippant  Blanche,  assisting  at  the  conversation 
from  outside  the  open  window  of  the  breakfast-room  or  den,  in 
which  the  four  damsels  were  as  untidy  as  they  pleased ;  Eliza- 
beth's colour-box  and  drawing-board,  Gertrude's  work-box, 
Diana's  desk,  Blanche's  Dorcas  bag,  all  heaped  pell-mell  upon 
the  battered  old  sideboard. 

"  If  you  spent  more  time  among  the  poor,  Diana,"  said  Ger- 
trude, not  deigning  to  notice  this  interruption,  '"you  need  not  be 
afraid  of  any  man's  eyes.  When  our  own  hearts  are  at  peace " 

"  Don't,  please,  Gerty;  don't  give  me  any  warmed-up  versions 
of  your  tracts.  The  state  of  my  own  heart  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  question.  If  I  were  the  most  spotless  being  in  creation, 
I  should  feel  just  the  same  about  Mr.  Forde's  eyes.  As  for 
district-visiting,  you  know  very  weU  that  my  health  was  never 
good  enough  for  that  kind  of  thing ;  and  I'm  sure  if  papa  had 
six  daughters  instead  of  four,  you  do  enough  in  the  goody-goody 
line  for  the  whole  batch." 

Miss  LuttreU  gave  a  gentle  sigh,  and  continued  her  needlework 
in  silence.  She  could  not  help  feeling  that  she  was  the  one  bit 
of  leaven  that  leavened  the  wliole  lump;  that  if  a  general  de- 
struction were  threatened  the  daughters  of  Hawleigh  by  reason 
of  their  frivolities,  her  own  sterling  merits  might  buy  them  off— 
as  the  ten  vighteous  men  who  were  not  to  be  found  in  Sodom 
might  have  r^iasomed  that  guilty  population. 

Elizabeth  had  been  busy  painting  a  little  bit  of  still-life — an 
over-ripe  peach  and  a  handful  of  pansies  and  mulberry-leaves 
lying  loosely  scattered  at  the  base  of  Mr,  Luttrell's  Venetian 
claret-flask,  She  had  gone  steadily  on  with  her  work,  laying  on 
little  dabs  of  transparent  colour  with  a  quick  light  touch,  and 
not  vouchsafing  any  exiDression  of  interest  in  the  discussion  of 
Mr.  Forde's  peculiarities. 

"  He's  very  good-looking,"  Diana  said  meditatively.  "  Don't 
you  think  so,  Lizzie  ?     You're  an  authority  upon  curates." 

Elizabeth  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  answered  in  her  most 
indiflferent  tone : 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 


,j  " 


"  Tolerably !     He  has  rather  a  good  forehead; 

"  Eatlier  good ! "  exclaimed  Gertrude,  grinding  industriously 
across  an  expanse  of  calico  with  her  cutting-out  scissors.  "  He 
has  the  forehead  of  an  apostle." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  You  never  saw  an  apostle,"  cried 
Blanche  from  the  window,  with  her  favourite  line  of  argument. 
"  And  as  for  the  pictures  we  see  of  them,  that's  all  humbug !  for 
there  were  no  pliotographcrs  in  Judea." 

"  Come  indoors,  Blanche,  and  write  a  German  exercise,"  said 
jcrtrude.  "  It's  too  bad  to  stand  out  there  all  the  morning, 
idling  away  your  time." 

"  And  spoiling  your  comj^lexion  into  the  bargain,"  added 
Diana.     "  What  a  tawny  Uttle  wretch  you  are  becoming !  " 

"  I  don't  care  two  straws  about  my  complexion,  and  I'm  not 
going  to  cramp  my  hand  with  that  horrid  German  !  "   _ 

"  Think  of  the  privilege  of  being  able  to  read  Schiller  in  the 
original ! "  said  Gertrude  solemnly. 

"  I  don't  think  much  of  it ;  for  I  never  see  you  read  him, 
though  you  do  pride  yourself  on  your  German,"  answered  the 
flippant  Blanche.  And  then  they  went  back  to  Mr.  Forde,  and 
discussed  his  eyes  and  forehead  over  again;  not  arrivingat  any 
very  definite  expression  of  opinion  at  the  last,  and  Elizabeth 
holding  her  ideas  in  reserve. 

"  I  don't  think  this  one  will  be  quite  like  the  rest,  Liz,"  said 
Diana  significantly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  like  the  rest  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  won't  make  a  fool  of  himself  about  you,  as  Mr. 
Horton  did,  with  his  flute-playing  and  stuff;  and  he  won't  go 
on  like  Mr.  Dysart;  and  he  won't  write  sentimental  poetry,  and 
languish  about  all  the  afternoon  spooning  at  croquet,  like  little 
Mr.  Adderley.  You  needn't  count  upon  making  a  conquest  of 
Mm,  Lizzie.     He  has  the  ideas  of  a  monk." 

"  Abelard  was  destined  to  become  a  monk,"  rephed  Elizabeth 
calmly,  "  but  that  did  not  prevent  his  falling  in  love  with 
Eloise." 

"  0,  I  daresay  you  think  it  will  end  by  his  being  as  weak  aa 
the  rest.  But  he  told  me  that  he  does  not  approve  of  a  priest 
marrying — rather  rude,  wasn't  it  ?  when  you  consider  that  wo 
should  not  be  in  existence,  if  papa  had  entertained  the  same 
opinion." 

"  I  don't  suppose  we  count  for  much  in  his  grand  ideas  of  re- 
ligion," answered  Elizabeth  a  little  contemptuously.  She  had  held 
her  small  flirtations  with  previous.  cura,tes  as  the  merest  trifling, 
but  the  trifling  had  beenpieasant  enough  in  its  way.  She  had 
liked  the  incense.  And  behold,  here  was  a  man  who  withheld  all 
praise ;  who  had  made  his  own  scheme  of  life — a  scheme  from 
which  she,  Elizabeth  Luttrelb  was  excluded.   It  was  a  new  thinar 


10  Strangers  a 'id  Fih/rlms. 

for  lier  to  fiad  that  she  counted  for  nothing  in  the  existence  of 
any  young  man  who  knew  her. 

This  conversation  took  place  when  Mr.  Forde  had  been  at 
Hawleigh  about  a  month.  Time  slipped  past.  Malcolm  Forde 
took  the  parish  in  hand  with  a  firm  grip,  Mr.  Luttrell  being  an 
easy-going  gentleman,  quite  agreeable  to  let  his  curate  work  aa 
hard  as  he  liked.  The  two  sleepy  old  churches  awoke  into  new 
life.  Where  there  had  been  two  services  on  a  Sunday  there 
were  now  four;  where  there  had  been  one  service  on  a  great 
church  festival  there  were  now  five.  The  dim  old  aisles  bloomed 
with  flowers  at  Easter  and  Ascension,  at  Whitsuntide  and 
Harvest-thanksgiving-feast;  and  the  damsels  of  Hawleigh  hat? 
new  work  to  do  in  the  decoration  of  the  churches  and  in  the 
embroidery  of  chalice-covers  and  altar-cloths.     , 

But  it  was  not  only  in  extra  services  and  beautification  of  the 
temples  alone  that  Mr.  Forde  brought  about  a  new  aspect  of 
affairs  in  Hawleigh.  The  poor  were  cared  for  as  they  had  never 
been  cared  for  before.  Almost  all  the  time  that  the  soldier- 
curate  could  spare  from  his  public  duties  he  devoted  to  private 
ministration.  And  yet  when  he  did  permit  himself  an  after- 
noon's recreation,  he  came  to  gipsy  tea-drinking  or  croquet 
with  as  fresh  an  air  as  if  he  were  a  man  who  lived  only  for 
pleasure.  Above  all,  he  never  preached  sermons — out  of  the 
pulpit.  That  was  his  one  merit,  Lizzie  Luttrell  said,  in  a  some- 
what disparaging  tone. 

"  His  one  fault  is,  to  be  so  unlike  the  other  curates,  Liz,  and 
able  to  resist  your  blandishments,"  said  Diana  sharply. 

Mr.  Forde  had  made  himself  a  favourite  with  all  that  house- 
hold except  Elizabeth.  The  three  other  girls  worshipped  him. 
She  rarely  mentioned  him  without  a  sneer.  And  yet  she  was 
thinking  of  him  this  midsummer  afternoon,  as  she  sat  by  the 
orchard  wall,  trying  to  read  the  volume  he  had  recommended ; 
she  was  thinking  of  a  few  grave  words  in  which  he  had  confesseif 
his  interest  in  her ;  thinking  of  the  dark  searching  eyes  whicl» 
had  looked  for  one  brief  moment  into  her  own. 

"  I  really  thought  I  counted  for  nothing,"  she  said  to  hersel, 
"  he  has  such  ofi'-hand  ways,  and  sets  kimself  so  much  above 
other  people.     I  don't  think  he  quite  means  to  be  grand ;  if 
seems  natural  to  him.     He  ought  to  have  been  a  general  at  leus^ 
in  India,  instead  of  a  twopenny-halfpenny  captain  ! "' 

The  half-hour  was  soon  gone.  It  was  very  ])leasant  to  her, 
that  idling  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  wall ;  for  the  thoughts  of 
her  morning's  walk  were  strangely  sweet — sweeter  than  any  flat- 
teries that  had  ever  been  whispered  in  her  ear.  And  yet  Mr. 
Forde  had  not  praised  her;  had  indeed  seemed  utterly  uncon« 
Bcious  of  her  superiority  to  other  women.  His  words  had  been 
■Tank,  and  grave,  and  kindly:  a  little  loo  much  bke  a  lecture 


StraHf/era  and  Pihjrims.  11 

perhaps,  and  yet  sweet;  for  they  were  the  firat  words  in  which 
Malcolm  Porde  had  betrayed  the  faintest  interest  in  her  welfare. 
A-nd  it  ia  a  hard  thing  for  a  young  woman,  who  has  been  a  god- 
dess and  an  angel  in  the  sight  of  three  consecutive  curates,  to 
find  the  fourth  as  indifferent  to  her  merits  as  if  he  were  a  man 
of  stone. 

Yes,  he  had  decidedly  lectured  her.  That  is  to  say,  he  had 
spoken  a  little  regretfully  of  her  trivial  wasted  life — her  neg- 
lected opportunities. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  opportunities,"  she  had  an- 
swered, with  a  little  coutemptuous  curl  of  the  rosy  upper  lip.  "  I 
can't  burst  out  all  at  once  into  a  female  bishop.  As  for  district- 
visiting,  I  have  really  no  genius  for  that  kind  of  thing,  and  I'eel 
myself  a  useless  bore  in  poor  people's  houses.  I  know  I  have 
been  rather  idle  about  the  church  embroidery,  too,''  she  added 
with  a  deprecating  air,  feeling  that  here  lie  had  cause  for  com- 
plaint. 

"  I  am  very  anxious  that  our  churches  should  be  made  beau- 
tiful," he  answered  gravely;  "and  I  should  think  it  only 
natural  for  you  to  take  a  delight  in  that  Icind  of  labour.  But  I 
do  not  consider  ecclesiastical  embroidery  the  beginning  and  end 
of  life.  I  should  like  to  see  you  more  interested  in  the  poor 
and  in  the  schools,  more  interested  in  your  fellow-creatures 
altogether,  in  short.  I  fancy  the  life  you  lead  at  Hawleigh 
Vicarage  among  your  roses  and  apple-trees  is  just  a  little  the 
life  of  the  lotus-eater. 

*  All  its  allotted  length  of  clays 
TLe  tlower  ripens  in  its  place, 
Eipens  and  fades  and  falls,  and  Iiatli  no  toil, 
Fast  rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. ' 

It  doesn't  do  for  a  responsible  being  to  live  that  kind  of  life, 
you  know,  leaving  no  better  memory  behind  than  the  record  of 
its  beauty.  I  should  hai'dly  venture  to  say  so  much  as  this 
Miss  Luttrell,  if  I  were  not  warmly  interested  in  you." 

The  clear  pale  face,  looking  downward  with  rather  a  mood  v 
air,  like  the  face  of  a  wayward  child  that  can  hardly  suilV-r 
a  rebuke,  flushed  sudden  crimson  at  his  last  words.  To  Jli-. 
Forde's  surprise ;  for  the  interest  he  had  confessed  was  of  a 
purely  priestly  kind.  But  young  women  are  so  sensitive,  and 
ne  was  not  unused  to  see  his  female  parishioners  ]}lush  and 
tremble  a  little  under  the  magnetism  of  his  earnest  gaze  and 
low  grave  voice. 

Conscious  of  that  foolish  blush,  Elizabeth  tried  to  carry  o.'T 
her  confusion  by  a  rather  flippant  laugh. 

"  You  read  your  Tennyson,  you  see,"  she  said,  "  tliough  you 


12  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

lecture  me  for  my  idleness.      Isn't  poetr\-  a  kind  of  lotoa. 
eating  P" 

"  Hardly,  I  think.  I  don't  consider  my  duty  stern  enough  to 
cut  me  off  from  all  the  flowers  of  life.  I  should  be  sorry  to  moon 
about  with  a  duodecimo  Tennyson  in  my  pocket  when  I  ou^ht 
to  be  at  work ;  but  when  I  have  a  stray  half-hour,  I  can  give 
myself  a  little  indulgence  of  that  kind.  Besides,  Tennyson  is 
something  more  than  a  poet.     He  is  a  teacher." 

'•  You  will  come  to  play  croquet  for  an  hour  this  evening, 
won't  you  ?     Gertrude  wrote  to  you  yesterday,  I  think." 

"  Yes,  I  must  apologise  for  not  answering  her  note  I 
shall  be  most  happy  to  come,  if  possible.  But  I  have  two  or 
three  sick  people  to  visit  this  afternoon,  and  I  am  not  quite 
sure  of  my  time.  The  poor  souls  cling  to  one  so  at  last. 
They  want  a  friendly  hand  to  grasp  on  the  threshold  of  the 
dark  valley,  and  they  have  some  dim  notion  that  we  hold  the 
keys  of  the  other  world,  and  can  open  a  door  for  them  and  lei 
them  through  to  a  better  place  than  they  could  win  for  them- 
selves." 

"  It  must  be  dreadftil  to  see  so  much  of  death,"  said  Elizabeth, 
with  a  faint  shudder. 

"Hardly  so  dreadful  as  you  may  supjDose.  A  deathbed 
develops  some  of  the  noblest  qualities  of  a  man's  nature.  I 
have  seen  so  much  unselfish  thoughtfulness  for  others,  so 
much  tenderness  and  love  in  the  dying.  And  then  for  these 
poor  people  life  has  _  been  for  the  most  part  so  barren,  so 
troubled,  it  is  like  passing  away  from  a  perpetual  struggle  to  a 
land  that  is  to  be  all  brightness  and  rest.  If  you  would  only 
spend  more  time  among  your  father's  parishioners,  Miss  Luttrell, 
you  would  learn  much  that  is  worth  learning  of  life  and  death." 

"  I  couldn't  endure  it,"  she  answered,  shrugging  her  shoulders 
impatiently ;  "I  ought  never  to  have  been  born  a  parson's 
daughter.  I  should  do  no  good,  but  harm  more  likely.  The 
people  would  see  hc'^  miserable  I  thought  them,  and  be  all  the 
more  discontented  with  their  wretched  lots  after  my  visits.  I 
tan't  act  goody-goody  as  Gertrude  does,  and  make  those  poor 
tvretches  believe  that  I  think  it  the  nicest  thing  in  the  world 
to  live  in  one  room,  and  have  hardly  bread  to  eat,  and  only  one 
blanket  among  six.  It's  too  dreadful.  Six  weeks  of  it  would 
kill  me." 

Mr.  Forde  sighed  ever  so  faintly,  but  said  no  more.  What  a 
poor,  selfish,  narrow  soul  this  lovely  girl's  must  be !  Nature 
does  sometimes  enshrine  her  commonest  spirits  in  these  splendid 
temjoles.  He  felt  a  httle  disappointed  by  the  girl's  selfishness 
and  coldness;  for  he  had  imagined  that  she  needed  only  to  be 
awakened  from  the  happy  idleness  of  a  young  joy -loving  spirit. 
He  said  no  more,  tbouirh  they  walked  side  l/y  side  as   fai    us 


Slrangert  and  Pilgrims.  18 

St.  Mary's,  the  red  square-towered  church  at  the  beginning  of 
the  town,  and  parted  with  perfect  friendliness.  Yet  the  thought 
of  that  interview  vexed  Malcolm  Forde  all  day  long. 

"I  had  hoped  better  things  of  her,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  But  of  course  I  shan't  give  up.  She  is  so  young,  and  ssems 
to  have  a  pliant  disposition.  What  a  pity  that  Luttrell  has  let 
his  daughters  grow  up  juat  as  they  please,  like  the  foxgloves  in 
his  hedges !" 

In  Mr.  Forde's  opinion,  those  four  young  women  ought  to 
have  been  trained  into  a  little  band  of  sisters  of  mercy — a  pioua 
rsisterhood  carrying  life  and  light  into  the  dark  alleys  of  Haw- 
leigh.  It  was  not  a  large  place,  that  western  market-town, 
numbering  eleven  thousand  souls  in  all;  yet  there  were 
alleys  enough,  and  moral  darkness  and  poverty  and  sickness 
and  sorrow  enough,  to  make  work  for  a  nunnery  of  ministering 
women.  Mr.  Forde  had  plenty  of  district-visitors  ready  to 
labour  for  him ;  but  they  were  for  the  most  part  ill-advised  and 
frivolous  ministrants,  and  absorbed  more  of  his  time  by  their 
need  of  counsel  and  supervision  than  ho  cared  to  give  them. 
They  were  of  the  weakest  order  of  womanhood,  craving  per- 
petual support  and  assistance,  wanting  all  of  them  to  play 
the  ivy  to  Mr.  Forde's  oak ;  and  no  oak,  however  vigorous, 
could  have  sustained  such  a  weight  of  ivy.  He  had  to  tell 
them  sometimes,  in  plainest  words,  that  if  they  couldn't  do 
their  work  without  continual  recourse  to  him,  their  work  was 
scarcely  worth  having.  Whereupon  the  weaker  vessels  dropped 
away,  admitting  in  their  High-Church  slang  that  they  had  no 
"  vocation ;  "  that  is  to  say,  there  was  too  much  bread  and  too 
little  sack  in  the  business,  too  much  of  the  poor  and  not 
enough  of  Mr.  Forde. 

For  this  reason  he  liked  Gertrude  Luttrell,  who  went  about 
her  work  in  a  womanUke  way,  rarely  applied  to  him  for  counsel, 
had  her  own  opinions,  and  really  did  achieve  some  good.  It 
may  have  been  for  this  reason,  and  in  his  desire  to  oblige 
Gertrude,  that  he  made  a  little  effort,  and  contrived  to  play 
croquet  in  the  Vicarage  garden  on  this  midsummer  evening. 


CHAPTER  II. 

••  Best  ]eave  or  take  the  perfect  creature, 
Take  all  she  is  or  leave  comjjlete  ; 
Transmute  you  will  not  form  or  feature. 

Change  feet  for  vrings  or  wings  for  feet." 

Ir  waa  halcyon  weather  for  croquet;  not  a  cloud  in  the  warm 
summer  sky,  and  promise  of  a  glorious  sunset,  red  and  glowing, 

I! 


14  Stranrjers  and  Pilrjrims. 

for  "  the  shepherd's  delight."  The  grass  had  iDeen  snorn  that 
morning,  and  was  soft  and  thick,  and  sweet  with  a  thymy 
perfume  :  a  little  uneven  here  and  there,  but  affording  so  much 
the  more  opportunity  for  the  players  to  prove  themselves 
superior  to  small  difficulties.  The  roses  and  seringa  were  in 
their  midsummer  glory,  and  from  the  white  walls  of  the 
Vicarage  came  the  sweet  odours  of  jasmine  and  honeysuckle, 
clematis  and  myrtle.  All  sweet-scented  flowers  seemed  to  grow 
here  vnth  a  wider  luxuriance  than  Malcolm  Forde  had  ever 
seen  anywhere  else.  His  own  small  patrimony  was  on  a 
uorthern  soil,  and  all  his  youthful  recollections  were  of  a  bleaker 
land  than  this. 

"An  enervating  climate,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said  to  himself;  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  roses  and  the  seringa  might  be  a 
"  snare."  There  was  something  stifling  in  the  slumberous 
summer  air,  the  Arcadian  luxury  of  syllabubs  and  cream,  the 
verdure  and  blossom  of  this  flowery  land.  He  felt  as  if  his  soul 
must  needs  stagnate,  as  if  life  must  become  too  much  an  affair 
of  the  senses,  in  so  sweet  and  sensuous  a  clime. 

This  was  but  a  passing  fancy  which  flashed  upon  him  as  he 
opened  the  broad  white  gate  and  went  into  the  garden,  where 
the  four  girls  in  their  white  gowns  and  various  ribbons  were 
scattered  on  the  grass  :  Blanche  striking  the  last  hoop  into  its 
place  with  her  mallet;  Diana  trying  a  stroke  at  loose  croquet; 
Gertrude  busy  at  a  tea-table  placed  in  the  shade  of  a  splendid 
Spanish  chestnut,  which  spread  its  bi-anches  low  and  wide, 
making  a  tent  of  greenery  beneath  which  a  dozen  people  could 
dine  in  comfort.  Elizabeth,  apart  from  all  the  rest,  standing 
by  the  sun-dial,  tall,  and  straight  as  a  dart,  looking  like  a 
Greek  princess  in  the  days  when  the  gods  fell  in  love  with  the 
daughters  of  earthly  kings. 

Mr.  Forde  was  not  a  Greek  god,  but  a  faint  thrill  stirred  his 
senses  at  the  sight  of  that  gracious  figure  by  the  sun-dial,  never- 
theless; only  an  artist's  delight  in  perfect  beauty.  The  life 
which  he  had  planned  for  himself  was  in  most  things  the 
,ife  of  a  m»nk ;  but  he  could  not  help  feehng  that  Elizabeth 
Luttrell  was  perfectly  beautiful,  and  that  for  a  man  of  a  weaker 
stamp  there  might  be  danger  in  this  friendly  association, 
which  brought  them  together  somehow  two  or  three  times  in 
every  week. 

*'  I  have  known  her  a  year,  and  she  has  never  touched  my 
heart  in  the  faintest  degree,"  he  told  himself,  with  some  sense 
of  triumph  in  the  knowledge  that  he  was  impervious  to  such, 
fascinations.  "  If  we  were  immortal,  and  could  go  on  knowing 
each  other  for  thirty  years — she  for  ever  beautiful  and  young, 
I  forever  in  the  prime  of  manhood — I  do  not  think  she  would 
be  any  nearer  to  me  than  she  is  now." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  16 

Mr.  Forde  was  the  first  of  the  guests.  The  three  girls  ran 
forward  to  receive  him,  greeting  him  with  a  kind  of  rapture. 
It  was  so  good  of  him  to  come,  they  gushed  out  simultaneously. 
They  felt  as  if  a  saint  had  come  to  take  the  first  red  ball  and 
mallet.  Gertrude  always  gave  Mr.  Forde  the  red-ringed  balls ; 
she  said  they  reminded  her  of  the  rubric. 

Elizabeth  stirred  not  at  all.  She  stood  by  the  sun-dial,  her 
face  to  the  west,  contemplative,  or  simply  indiff'erent,  Mr.  Forde 
could  not  tell  which.  Did  she  see  him,  he  wondei'ed,  and 
deliberately  refrain  Irom  greeting  him  ?  Or  was  she  so  lost  in 
thought  as  to  be  unconscious  of  his  presence?  Or  did  she 
resent  his  little  lecture  of  that  morning  ?  She  could  hardly  do 
that,  he  considered,  when  they  had  parted  in  perfect  friendshij). 

"  It  is  so  good  of  you  to  be  punctual,"  said  Gertrude,  making 
a  pleasant  little  jingb'ng  with  the  china  teacups ;  the  best  china, 
all  blue-aud-gold,  hoarded  away  in  the  topmost  of  cupboards, 
wrapped  in  much  silver  paper,  and  only  taken  down  for  festive 
tea-drinkings  like  this. 

It  was  not  a  kettledrum  tea,  but  a  rustic  feast  rather ;  or  a 
"  tea-shufiie,"  as  young  Mr.  Melvin  the  lawyer,  called  it. 
There  was  a  round  table,  covered  with  a  snowy  table-cloth,  and 
laden  with  home  produce:  a  pound-cake  of  golden  hue;  pre- 
served fruits  of  warm  red  and  amber  tint  in  sparkling  cut-glass 
jars;  that  standing-dish  on  west-country  tables,  a  junket; 
home-made  bread,  with  the  brown  kissing-crust  that  never 
comes  from  the  hireling  baker's  oven ;  teacakes  of  featheiy 
lig»iitness  ;  rich  yellow  butter,  which  to  the  epicure  might  have 
been  worth  a  journey  from  London  to  Devonshire;  and  for  the 
crowning  glory  of  the  banquet,  a  capacious  basket  of  straw- 
ben-ies  and  a  bowl  of  clotted  cream. 

"  The  Melvins  are  always  late,"  said  Diana ;  "  but  we  are 
not  going  to  let  you  wait  for  your  tea,  Mr.  Forde — are  we, 
Gertrude  P     Here  comes  Ann  with  the  kettle." 

This  silver  tea  kettle  was  the  pride  of  the  Luttrell  household. 
It  had  been  presented  to  Mr.  Luttrell  at  the  close  of  his  minis- 
trations in  a  former  parish,  and  was  engraved  with  the  Luttrell 
loat  of  arms  in  all  the  splendour  of  its  numerous  quarterings. 
ft  spirit-lamp  burned  beneath  this  sacred  vessel,  which  Gertrude 
tended  as  carefully  as  if  she  had  been  a  vestal  virgin  watching 
ihe  immortal  flame. 

Mr.  Forde  insisted  that  they  should  wait  for  the  rest  of  the 
company.  He  did  not  languish  for  that  cup  of  tea  wherewith 
Miss  Luttrell  was  eager  to  refresh  his  tired  frame.  Perhaps  in 
such  a  moment  his  thoughts  may  have  glanced  back  to  the 
half-forgotton  mess-table,  and  its  less  innocent  banquets ;  the 
long  table,  glittering  in  the  low  sunshine,  with  its  bright  array 
of  ^'ry  8fi","'»  and  costly  silver — was  not  his  corps  renowned  for 


iO  Strangers  and  Pilgnim. 

ito  tnste  in  these  trifles? — the  pleasant  familiar  facos,  the  talk 
and  laughter.  Time  was  when  he  had  Hved  his  life,  and  thai 
altogether  another  life,  difiering  in  every  detail  from  his  exist- 
ence of  to-day,  holding  not  one  hope,  or  dream,  or  project  which 
he  cherished  now.  He  could  look  back  at  those  idle  pleasures, 
those  aimless  days,  without  the  faintest  sigh  of  regret.  Sad- 
dened, discouraged,  fainthearted,  he  had  often  been  since  this 
pilgrimage  of  his  was  begun ;  but  never  for  one  weak  moment 
had  he  looked  longingly  back. 

He  said  a  few  words  to  Blanche,  who  blushed,  and  sparkled, 
and  answered  him  in  little  gasps,  with  upward  worshipping 
gaze,  as  if  he  had  been  indeed  an  apostle ;  talked  with  Diana 
for  five  minutes  or  so  about  the  choir — she  played  the  har- 
monium in  St.  Mary's,  the  older  of  the  two  churches,  which  did 
not  boast  an  organ ;  and  then  strolled  across  the  grass  to  the 
sundial,  where  Lizzie  was  still  standing  in  mute  contemplation 
of  the  western  sky. 

They  shook  hands  almost  silently.  He  did  not  intend  to 
apologise  for  what  he  had  said  that  morning.  If  the  reproof 
had  stung  her,  so  much  the  better.  He  had  meant  to  reprove. 
And  yet  it  pained  him  a  little  to  think  that  he  had  offended 
her.  How  lovely  she  was  as  she  stood  before  him,  smiling,  in 
the  western  sunshine !  He  never  remembered  having  seen  any- 
thing so  beautiful,  except  a  face  of  Guido's — the  face  of  the 
Virgin-mother — in  a  Roman  picture-gallery.  That  smile  re- 
lieved his  mind  a  little.     She  could  hardly  be  offended. 

"  You  have  had  a  fatiguing  day,  I  suppose,  with  your  sick 
people  P  "  she  said  suddenly,  after  a  few  words  about  the  beauty 
of  the  evening  and  the  tmpunctuality  of  their  friends.  "  Do 
you  know,  I  have  been  thinking  of  what  you  said  to  me  this 
morning,  all  day  long ;  and  I  begin  to  feel  that  I  must  do  some- 
thing. It  seems  almost  as  if  I  had  had  what  evangelical 
people  describe  as  '  a  call.'  I  should  really  like  to  do  some- 
thing. I  don't  suppose  any  good  will  come  of  it — I  know  it  i.s 
not  my  line — and  I  am  rather  sorry  you  tried  to  awaken  my 
.<ylumbering  conscience.  But  you  must  tell  me  what  I  am  to 
io.  I  am  your  pupil,  you  know — your  Madame  de  Chantal, 
St.  Francis ! " 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  thriUing  smile-wthe  deep 
violet  eyes  just  lifted  for  a  moment  to  his  own,  with  a  glance 
which  was  swift  and  sudden  as  the  flight  of  an  arrow.  Across 
his  mind  there  flashed  the  memory  of  mediaaval  legends  of 
witchcraft  and  crime:  records  of  priestly  passion — of  women 
whose  noxious  presence  had  brought  shame  upon  holy  sister- 
hoods— of  infatuation  so  fatal  as  to  seem  the  inspiration  of 
Satan — of  baneful  beauty  that  had  lighted  the  way  to  the  tor- 
ture-chamber and  the  stake.     An  idle  memory  in  such  a  mo- 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  17 

ment!      iVhat  had  he  to   do  with  those  da^rk   passions — the 
fungus-growth  of  an  age  that  was  all  darkness? 

"  I  think  your  father  is  more  than  competent  to  advise  you," 
he  answered  gravely. 

"  0,  no  man  is  a  prophet  in  his  own  country,"  she  said  care- 
lessly. "  I  should  never  think  of  talking  to  papa  about 
spiritual  things  ;  we  have  too  many  painful  interviews  upon  the 
subject  of  pocket-money.  If  you  want  to  reclaim  me,  you 
must  help  me  a  little,  Mr.  Forde.  But  perhaps  I  am  not  worth 
the  trouble?" 

"  You  cannot  doubt  that  I  should  be  glad  to  be  of  use  to  you. 
But  it  would  be  presumption  on  my  part  to  dictate.  Your  own 
good  sense  will  prompt  you,  and  you  have  an  admirable 
counsellor  in  your  sister  Gertrude,  my  best  district-visitor." 

"  I  should  never  submit  to  be  drilled  by  Gertrude.  No  ;  if 
you  won't  help  me,  I  must  wait  for  inspiration.  As  for  district- 
visiting,  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  hate  the  very  notion  of  it.  If 
there  were  another  Crimean  war  now,  I  should  like  to  go  out  as 
a  nursing-sister,  especially  if" — she  looked  at  him  with  another 
briefly  mischievous  glance — "if  there  were  nice  people  to 
nurse." 

"I'm  afraid,  young  ladies  whose  inclinations  point  to  a 
mihtary  theatre  are  hardly  in  the  right  road,"  he  said  coldly. 

He  fi^lt  that  she  was  trifling  with  him,  and  was  inclined  to  be 
tngry.  He  walked  away  from  the  sun-dial  towards  the  hall- 
loor,  from  which  Mr.  Luttrell  was  slowly  emerging— an  elderly 
gentleman,  tall  and  stout,  with  a  still  handsome  face  framed  in 
lilky  gray  whiskers,  and  a  slightly  worn-out  air,  as  of  a  man 
pho  had  mistaken  his  vocation,  and  never  quite  recovered  hia 
liscovery  of  the  mistake. 

"  Very  good  of  you  to  come  and  play  croquet  with  my 
hildren,  Forde,"  he  said  in  his  good-natured  lazy  way — he  had 
lalled  them  children  when  they  were  all  in  the  nursery,  and  he 
jailed  them  children  still — "  especially  as  I  don't  think  it's  par- 
ticularly in  your  line.  0,  here  come  the  j).Ielvins  and  Mis 
Harrison  ;  so  I  suppose  we  are  to  begin  tea,  in  order  that  you 
may  have  an  hour's  daylight  for  your  game  ?  " 

Elizabeth  had  walked  away  from  the  sundial  in  an  opposite 
direction,  smiling  soi'tly  to  herself.  It  was  something  to  have 
made  him  angr}^  She  had  seen  the  pale  dark  face  flush  hotly 
for  a  moment;  a  sudden  fire  kindled  in  the  deep  grey  eyes.  In 
the  morning  he  had  confessed  himself  interested  in  her  welfare; 
in  the  evening  she  had  contrived  to  provoke  him.  That  waa 
eomething  gained. 

"  He  is  nofc  quite  a  block  of  stone !  "  she  thought. 

She  did  not  trouble  herself  to  come  forward  and  welcome  the 
Melvin  party,  any  more  than  she  had  troubled  herself  to  greet 


18  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

Mr.  Forde  ;  but  came  strolling  across  the  grass  towards  the 
tea-table  presently  when  every  one  else  was  seated ;  the  guests 
here  and  there  under  the  chestnut  branches,  while  Gertrude  sat 
at  the  table  disjDensing  the  tea-cups,  with  Frederick  Melvin  in 
attendance.  Mr.  Melvin  was  the  eldest  son  of  the  chief  solicitor 
of  Hawleigh,  in  partnership  with  his  father,  and  vaguely  sup- 
posed to  be  eligible  from  a  matrimonial  point  of  view.  He  was 
a  young  man  who  had  an  unlimited  capacity  for  croquet,  vingu 
et-un,  table-turning,  and  small  flirtations ;  spent  all  his  spare 
hours  on  the  river  Tabor,  and  seemed  hardly  at  home  out  of  a 
suit  of  boating  flannels.  He  was  indifferently  in  love  with  the 
four  Miss  Luttrells,  with  a  respectful  leaning  towards  Elizabeth, 
as  the  beauty ;  and  he  was  generally  absorbed  by  the  flipiiant 
Blanche.  His  sister  Laura  sang  well,  and  did  nothing  else  to 
I^articularise  herself  in  the  minds  of  her  acquaintance.  She 
was  fond  of  music  and  discoursed  learnedly  of  symphonies  and 
sonatas,  adagios  in  0  flat  and  capriccios  in  F  double  sharp,  to 
the  terror  of  the  uninitiated.  Miss  Harrison  was  a  cousin, 
whose  people  were  of  the  gentleman-farmer  persuasion,  and  who 
came  from  a  sleepy  old  homestead  up  the  country  to  stay  with 
the  Melvins,  and  intoxicate  her  young  senses  with  the  dissipa- 
tions of  Hawleigh  market-place.  The  Melvins  lived  in  the 
market-place,  in  a  big  square  brick  house  picked  out  with  white 
■ — a  house  with  three  rows  of  windows  five  in  a  row,  a  flight  of 
steps,  and  a  green  door  with  a  brass  knocker;  the  very  house, 
one  would  suppose,  upon  which  all  the  dolls'  houses  ever  manu- 
factured have  been  modelled.  She  was  not  a  very  brilliant 
damsel,  and  when  she  had  been  asked  how  she  liked  Hawleigh 
after  the  country,  and  how  she  liked  the  country  after  Hawleigh, 
and  whether  she  liked  Hawleigh  or  the  country  best,  conversa- 
tion with  her  was  apt  to  languish. 

Mr.  Forde,  who  was  sitting  a  little  in  the  background,  talking 
to  Mr.  Luttrell,  rose  and  gave  his  chair  to  Elizabeth — the  last 
comer.  He  brought  another  for  himself  and  sat  down  again, 
and  went  on  with  his  talk ;  while  Frederick  Melvin  worshipped 
at  Elizabeth's  shrine — ofi'ering  tea,  and  pound-cake,  and  straw- 
berries, and  unutterable  devotion. 

'■  [  wish  you'd  go  and  flirt  with  Blanche,"  she  said  coolly. 
".'>.),  thanks;  I  don't  want  any  strawberries.  Now,  please, 
don't  sprinkle  a  shower  of  them  on  my  dross ;  I  shall  have  to 
wear  it  a  week.     How  awkward  you  are ! " 

"Who  could  help  being  awkward?"  pleaded  the  youth, 
blushing.  "  Sir  Charles  Grandison  would  have  made  a  fool  of 
himself  in  your  society." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  and  I 
don't  believe  you  do,  either.  That's  the  way  with  you  young 
men ;   you   get   the   names   of  people  and  thiuss  out  of  tha 


Strangers  and  JPilgrims.  19 

Saturday  lleview,  and  pretend  to  know  everything  under  the 
sun." 

"Wasn't  he  a  fellow  in  some  book — Pamela  or  Joseph 
Andrews  ?  something  of  Smollett's  P  some  sort  of  rubbish  in 
sixteen  volumes?     Nobody  reads  it  now-a-days." 

"  Then  I  wouldn't  quote  it,  if  I  were  you.  But  the  Saturday 
Beview  is  the  modern  substitute  for  the  Eton  Latin  Grammar. 
Please,  go  and  flirt  with  Blanche.  You  always  stand  so  close 
to  one,  making  a  door-mat  of  one's  dress ! " 

"  O,  very  well,  I'll  go  and  talk  to  Blanche.  But  remember  " 
— this  with  a  threatening  air — "  when  you  want  to  go  on  the 
Tabor " 

"  You'll  take  me,  of  course.  I  know  that.  Run  and  play, 
that's  a  dear  child  !  " 

He  was  her  senior  by  three  years,  but  she  gave  herself 
ineffable  airs  of  superiority  notwithstanding.  Perhaps  she  was 
not  displeased  to  exhibit  even  this  trumpery  swain  before  the 
eyes  of  Malcolm  Forde — who  went  on  talking  of  parish  matters 
with  her  father,  as  if  unconscious  of  her  presence.  Very  little 
execution  was  done  upon  the  pound-cake  or  the  syllabub.  The 
atmosphere  was  too  heavily  charged  Avith  flirtations  for  any 
serious  consumption  of  provisions.  It  is  the  people  who  have 
done  with  the  flowers  and  sunshine  of  life  who  make  most 
havoc  among  the  lobster- salads  and  raised  pies  at  a  picnic — 
for  whom  the  bouquet  of  the  moselle  is  a  question  of  supreme 
importance,  who  know  the  difference  between  a  hawk  and  a 
heron  in  the  way  of  claret. 

So,  after  a  Httle  *trifling  with  the  dainty  cates  Miss  Luttrell 
had  hospitably  provided,  the  young  people  rose  for  the  business 
of  the  evening. 

"  Wouldn't  you  rather  have  a  cigar  and  a  glass  of  claret  here, 
under  the  chestnut?"  said  Mr.  Luttrell,  as  Malcolm  Fortfe 
prepared  to  join  them.  V^' 

*'  That  would  be  a  breach  of  covenant,"  answered  the  Curate, 
jaughing,  "  I  was  invited  for  croquet.  Besides,  I  really 
enjoy  the  game ;  it's  a  sort  of  substitute  for  billiards." 

"  A  dissipation  you  have  renounced,"  said  the  Vicar,  iu 
his  careless  way.  "  You  modern  young  men  are  regular 
Trappists!" 

Whereby  it  will  be  seen  that  Wilmot  LTittrell  was  of  the 
Broad-Church  party — a  man  who  had  hunted  the  Devonian  red- 
deer  in  his  time,  who  had  still  a  brace  of  Joe  Manton's  in  hia 
study,  was  good  at  fly-fishing,  and  did  not  object  to  clerical 
billiards  or  a  social  rubber. 

They  played  for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  balmy  summer 
evening,  the  Luttrell  girls  and  their  four  visitors — played  till 
the  sunlight  faded  into  dusk,  and  the  dusk  deepened  into  the 


20  Strangers  and  Pilgrims, 

Boft  June  night — which  was  hardly  night,  but  rather  a  tender 
mixture  of  twihght  and  starshine.  Gertrude  had  taken 
Mr.  Forde  for  the  leader  of  her  side,  Miss  Harrison  and  Blanche 
Luttrell  making  up  their  four.  The  Beauty  headed  a  skirmish- 
ing party,  that  incorrigible  Frederick  for  her  supporter,  Df 
Xiuttrell  and  Laura  Melviu  bringing  up  the  rear.  To  hei 
Malcolm  Forde  addressed  no  word  throughout  the  little  tonma* 
ment.  It  may  have  been  because  he  had  no  opportunity ;  foi 
she  was  laughing  and  talking  more  or  leas  all  the  time,  in  the 
■wildest  spirits,  with  the  young  solicitor  perpetually  at  her 
elbow.  And  Gertrude  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  the  Curate ; 
chiefly  on  the  subject  of  her  parish  work,  and  a  little  of  a  more 
vague  and  metaphysical  nature  concerning  the  impressions  pro- 
duced upon  her  mind  by  his  last  Sunday-evening  sermon.  Ha 
listened  kindly  and  respectfully,  as  in  duty  bound,  but  thai 
frivolous  talk  and  laughter  upon  the  other  side  worried  him  not 
a  little.  Never  had  Elizabeth  seemed  to  him  so  vulgarly  pro- 
vincial ;  and  he  was  really  interested  in  her,  as  indeed  it  was  his 
duty  to  be  interested  in  the  welfare  of  his  Vicar's  daughters. 

"It  is  all  the  father's  fault,"  he  said  to  himself;  "I  do  not 
believe  he  has  ever  made  the  faintest  attempt  to  train  them." 

And  then  he  thought  what  an  estimable  young  person 
Gertrude  must  be  to  have  evolved  out  of  her  inner  conscious- 
ness, as  it  were,  all  that  serious  and  practical  piety  which  made 
her  so  valuable  to  him  in  his  ministrations.  As  to  the  future 
careers  of  the  other  three — of  Blanche,  who  talked  slang,  and 
seemed  to  consider  this  lower  wf>^Ad  designed  to  be  a  perpetual 
theatre  for  flirtation ;  of  Diani.,  who  was  selfish  and  idle,  and 
set  up  a  pretence  of  weak  health  as  a  means  of  escaping  all  the 
cares  and  perplexities  of  existence;  of  Elizabeth,  who  appeared 
in  her  own  character  to  embody  all  the  faults  and  weaknesses 
he  had  ever  supposed  possible  to  a  woman — of  the  manner  in 
which  these  three  were  to  tread  the  troubled  paths  of  life,  he 
could  only  think  with  a  shudder.  Poor  lampless  virgins. 
Btraying  blindly  into  the  darkness  ! 

Yet,  measured  by  a  simply  sensuous  standard,  how  sweet  was 
that  low  rippling  sound  of  girlish  laughter ;  how  graceful  the 
white-rebed  figure  moving  lightly  in  the  summer  dusk;  how 
exquisite  the  dark-blue  eyes  that  looked  at  him  in  the  starlight, 
when  the  game  was  ended,  and  the  Church  Militant,  as  Blanche 
said  pertly,  had  been  triumphant  over  the  Devil's  Own,  in  the 
person  of  the  mild-eyed  Frederick  Melvin !  Mr.  Forde's  un- 
erring stroke,  mathematically  correct  as  the  pendulum,  had 
brought  them  home,  in  spite  of  some  rather  feeble  playing  on  the 

{)art  of  Gertrude,  whose  mind  was  a  little  too  much  occupied  by 
ast  Sunday-evening's  sermon. 
Mr.  Luttrell  had  strolled  up  and  down   the  garden  walk. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  21 

■moking  his  cigar,  and  had  loitered  a  little  by  the  holiy  liedge 
talking  to  some  people  in  the  road,  while  the  croquet  players 
amused  themselves.  He  came  forward  now  to  propose  an  ad- 
journment to  the  house,  and  a  claret-cup.  So  they  all  went 
crowding  into  a  long  low  room  with  a  couple  of  bow  windows, 
a  room  which  was  lined  with  bookshelves  on  one  side,  contain- 
ing Taylor  and  Hooker,  and  Barrow  and  Tillotson,  and  South 
and  Venn,  and  other  ecclesiastical  volumes,  freely  intermingled 
with  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  secular  literature;  a  room 
which  served  Mr.  Luttrell  as  a  library,  but  which  was  neverthe- 
less the  drawing-room.  There  was  a  grand  piano  by  one  of  the 
bow  windows,  a  piano  which  had  been  presented  to  Diana  by  a 
wealthy  aunt  and  godmother,  and  the  brand-new  walnut-wood 
case  whereof  was  in  strong  contrast  with  the  time-worn  old 
chairs  and  tables;  the  chetfoniers  of  the  early  Georgian  era; 
the  ponderous  old  cane- seated  sofa,  with  its  chintz-covered 
pillows  and  painted  frame — a  pale,  pale  green  picked  out  with 
gold  that  was  fast  vanishing  away.  The  attenuated  crystal 
girandoles  upon  the  high  wooden  mantelshelf  were  almost  as 
old  as  the  invention  of  glass ;  the  Chelsea  shepherd  and  shep- 
herdess had  been  cracked  over  and  over  again,  but  held  together 
as  if  by  a  charmed  existence.  The  Derbyshire-spa  vases  were 
relics  of  a  dead-and-gone  generation.  The  mock-venetian  mir- 
ror was  of  an  almost  forgotten  fashion  and  a  quite  extinct 
manufacture.  Blanche  vowed  that  Noah  and  his  wife,  when 
they  kept  house  before  the  flood,  must  have  had  just  such  a 
drawing-room. 

Yet  this  antiquated  chamber  seemed  in  no  wise  displeasing  to 
the  sight  of  Mr.  Forde  as  he  came  in  from  the  starlit  garden. 
He  liked  it  a  great  deal  better  than  many  finer  rooms  in  which 
he  was  a  rare  but  welcome  visitor,  just  as  he  preferred  the 
ill-kept  Vicarage  lawn  and  flower-borders  to  the  geometrical 
parterres  of  millionaire  cloth  manufacturers  or  pompous  squires 
on  the  outskirts  of  Hawleigh. 

Frederick  ^Melvin  and  his  sister  pleaded  for  a  little  music, 
upon  which  the  usual  family  concert  began:  a  showy  fantasia 
by  Gertrude,  correctly  played,  with  a  good  firm  finger,  and  not 
a  spark  of  expression  from  the  first  bar  to  the  bang,  bang, 
hang !  at  the  end ;  then  a  canzonet  from  Blanche,  of  the  "  0,  'tis 
merry  when  the  cherry  and  the  blossom  and  the  berry,  tra-la- 
la-la,  tra-la-la "  school,  in  a  thin  little  soprano ;  then  a  sonata 
— Beethoven's  "  Adieu " — by  Miss  Melvin,  which  Mr.  Forde 
thought  the  longest  adieu  he  had  ever  been  obliged  to  listen  to. 
He  lost  patience  at  last,  and  went  over  to  Elizabeth,  whose  ripe 
round  mezzo-soprano  tones  he  languished  to  hear. 

"Won't  you  sing  something?"  he  asked. 

"  What,  does  not  singing  come  within  your  catalogue  of  for* 


22  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

bidden  pleasures — a  mere  idle  waste  of  time — lotos-eating,  in 
short?" 

"  You  know  that  I  do  not  think  anything  of  the  kind.  Why  do 
you  try  to  make  me  out  what  I  have  never  pretended  to  be — an 
ascetic,  or  worse,  a  Pharisee  ?  Is  is  only  because  I  am  anxious 
you  should  be  of  a  little  more  use  to  your  fellow-creatures  ?  " 

"And  of  course  singing  can  be  no  use,  unless  I  went  about 
among  your  cottage  people  leading  off  hymns." 

"Does  that  mean  that  you  won't  sing  to-night?  "  he  asked 
in  his  coldest  tone. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  I'll  wish  you  good-night.  I've  no  doubt  the  music 
we've  been  hearing  is  very  good  in  its  way,  but  it's  hardly  my 
way.  Good-night.  I'll  slip  away  quietly  without  disturbing 
your  friends." 

He  was  close  to  the  open  bow- window,  that  farthest  from  the 
piano,  and  went  out  unnoticed,  while  Miss  Melvin  and  her 
cousin  Miss  Harrison  were  debating  whether  they  should  or 
ohould  not  play  the  overture  to  Zampa.  He  went  out  of  the 
window,  and  walked  slowly  across  the  grass,  but  had  hardly 
reached  the  sun-dial,  when  he  heard  the  voice  he  knew  so  well 
swell  out  rich  and  full  in  the  opening  tones  of  a  ballad  he  loved, 
a  plaintive  lament  called  "  Ettrick." 

"  0,  murmuring  waters,  have  you  no  message  for  me?" 

He  stopped  by  the  sun-dial  and  heard  the  song  to  the  end; 
heard  Fred  Melvin  supplicating  for  auother  song,  and  Eliza- 
beth's impatient  refusal — "  She  was  tired  to  death,"  with  a 
little  nervous  laugh. 

He  went  away  after  this,  not  offended,  only  wor.dering  that 
any  woman  could  be  so  wilful,  could  take  so  much  j^ains  to 
render  herself  unwomanly  and  unloval)le.  He  thought  how 
keenly  another  man,  whose  life  was  differently  planned,  might 
have  felt  this  petty  slight — how  dangerous  to  such  a  man's 
peace  Elizabeth  Luttrell  might  have  been;  but  that  was  all. 
He  was  not  angry  with  her. 

What  would  he  have  thought,  if  he  could  have  seen  Elizabeth 
Luttrell  half  an  hour  later  that  night,  if  he  could  hp"<^,  seen  her 
fall  on  her  knees  by  one  of  the  little  French  beds  m  the  room 
that  she  and  Blanche  occupied  together,  and  bury  her  face  in 
the  counterpane  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears  .'* 

"What  is  the  matter,  Liz — what  is  it,  darling?"  cries 
Blanche  the  impulsive. 

The  girl  answers  nothing,  but  sobs  out  her  brief  passion,  and 
then  rises,  calm  as  a  statue,  to  confront  her  sister. 

"  If  you  ai-e  going  to  worry  me,  Blanche,  I  shall  sleep  in  the 


Stranc/ers  and  Pilgrims,  28 

passage,"  she  exclaims  in  impatient  rebuke  of  the  other's  sympa- 
thetic caress.  "  There's  nothing  the  matter.  I'm  tired,  that's 
all,  and  that  absurd  Fred  of  yours  has  persecuted  me  so  all  the 
evening." 

"  He's  no  Fred  of  mine,  and  I  think  you  rather  encouraged 
his  persecutions,"  said  Blanche  -with  an  aggrieved  air.  "  I'm 
sure  I  can't  make  you  out,  Lizzie.  I  thought  you  liked  Mr. 
Forde,  and  yet  you  quite  snubbed  him  to-night." 

"  Snubbed  him,"  cried  Elizabeth.  "  As  if  anybody  could 
snub  St.  Paul!" 


CHAPTER  III. 

*'  I  know  thy  forms  are  studied  arts, 
Thy  subtle  ways  be  narrow  straits  ; 
Thy  courtesy  but  sudden  starts, 

And  what  thou  call'st  thy  gifts  are  baita," 

The  Curate  of  Hawleigh,  modest  in  his  surroundings  as  the 
incorruptible  Maximilian  Piobespierre  himself,  had  lodgings  at 
a  carpenter's.  His  landlord  was  certainly  the  chief  carpenter 
of  the  town,  a  man  of  unblemished  respectability,  who  had  even 
infused  a  flavour  of  building  into  his  trade ;  but  the  Curate's 
bedroom  windows  commanded  a  view  of  the  carpenter's  yard, 
and  he  lived  in  the  odour  of  chips  and  shavings,  and  that  fresh 
piney  smell  which  seems  to  breathe  the  ]ierfume  of  a  thousand 
shii:)s  far  away  from  the  barren  main.  He  had  even  to  submit 
meekly  to  the  dismal  tap,  tap,  tap  of  the  hammer  when  a  coffin 
was  on  hand,  which  might  fairly  serve  as  a  substitute  for  tho 
"  Frere  ilfaut  mourir  f  of  the  Trajipist  brotherhood. 

It  must  not  be  sujoposed,  however,  that  this  choice  of  a 
lodging  was  an  act  of  asceticism  or  wanton  self-humiliation 
upon  the  part  of  Malcolm  Forde.  The  Hawleigh  curates  lodged, 
as  a  rule,  with  Humphreys  the  carpenter:  and  Hawleigh  being 
self-governed,  for  the  most  part,  upon  strictly  conservative 
principles,  it  would  have  been  an  outrage  against  the  sacred 
existing  order  of  things  if  Mr.  Forde  had  pitched  his  tent  else- 
whithc".  Mrs.  Humphreys  was  a  buxom  middle-aged  woman 
of  spotless  cleanliness,  who  kept  a  cow  in  a  neat  little  paddock 
behind  the  carpenter's  yard ;  a  woman  who  had  a  pleasant 
odour  of  dairy  about  her,  and  who  was  sujjposed  by  long  prac- 
tice to  have  acquired  a  special  faculty  for  "  doing  for  curates." 

"  I  know  their  tastes,"  she  would  say  to  her  gossips,  "  and 


24  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

it's  astonishing  how  little  their  tastes  varies.  *0,  give  me  a 
chop,  Mrs.  Humphreys,'  they  mostly  says,  if  I  werrifc  then? 
about  their  dinner.  But,  lor,  I  know  better  than  that.  Their 
poor  stomachs  would  soon  turn  against  chops  if  they  had  thera 
every  day.  So  I  soon  leaves  off  asking  'em  anything  about  dinner, 
and  contrives  to  give  'em  a  nice  variety  of  tasty  little  dishes — a 
whiting  and  a  lamb  cutlet  or  two  with  fried  p;irsley  one  day ;  a 
red  mullet  and  a  split  fowl  broiled  with  half-a-dozen  mushroome 
the  next,  a  spitchcook,  they  c-a\\  it;  and  then  the  day  after  I 
curry  what's  left  of  the  fowl,  so  as  their  bills  come  moderate ; 
and  I  never  had  a  wry  word  with  any  curate  yet,  except  Mr. 
Adderley,  who  didn't  like  squab-pie,  and  I  did  give  him  a  piece 
of  my  mind  about  that." 

The  rooms  were  comfortable  rooms,  though  of  the  plainest: 
lightsome  and  airy ;  fui-nished  with  chairs  and  tables  so  sub- 
stantial that  their  legs  had  not  been  enfeebled  by  the  various 
fidgetinesses  of  a  whole  generation  of  curates  :  honest  wide- 
seated  leather-bottomed  chairs  bought  at  the  sack  of  an  ancient 
manor-house ;  stalwart  Avalnut-wood  tables  and  brass-handled 
chests  of  drawers  made  when  George  the  Second  was  king. 
Mrs.  Humphreys  was  wont  to  boast  that  her  Joe — meaning  Mr. 
Joseph  Humphreys — knew  what  chairs  and  tables  were,  and  did 
not  choose  them  for  their  looks.  There  were  no  ornaments  of 
the  usual  lodging-house  type,  for  Mrs,  Humphreys  knew  that.it 
is  in  the  nature  of  curates  to  bring  with  them  sundry  nicknacks, 
the  relics  of  university  extravagances,  wherewith  to  decorate 
their  chambers. 

Mr.  Forde  had  furnished  both  sitting-room  and  bedroom 
"amply  with  books,  nay  even  the  slip  of  a  chamber  where  he 
kept  his  baths  and  sponges  and  bootstand  was  encumbered  with 
the  shabbier  volumes  in  his  collection, 'piled  breast-high  in  the 
angles  of  the  walls.  He  was  not  a  collector  of  bric-a-brac,  and 
the  sole  ornaments  of  his  sitting-room  were  a  brass  skeleton 
clock  which  had  travelled  many  a  league  with  him  in  his 
soldiering  days ;  a  carefully  painted  miniature  of  an  elderly  lady, 
whom,  by  the  likeness  to  himself,  one  might  reasonably  suppose 
to  be  his  mother,  on  one  side  of  the  mantelpiece ;  a  somewhat 
faded  daguerreotype  of  a  sweet  fair  young  face  on  the  other ; 
and  a  breakfast  cup  and  saucer  on  a  little  ebony  stand  under  a 
glass  shade.  Why  this  cup  and  saucer  should  be  so  preserved 
would  have  been  a  puzzling  question  for  a  stranger.  They  were 
of  ordinary  modern  china,  and  could  have  possessed  no  value 
from  an  artistic  point  of  view. 

He  had  performed  his  early  morning  duty  at  St.  Clement's, 
and  spent  lialf  an  hour  with  a  sick  parishioner,  before  his  nine- 
o'clock  bieakfast  on  the  day  following  that  little  croquet  party 
at  the  Vicarage.    He  was  dawdlinc;  a  little  as  he  sipped  his 


8lrangei*9  and  Pilgrims.  25 

flecond  cup  of  tea,  with  one  of  Southey's  Commonplace  Books 
open  at  his  elbow,  turning  over  the  leaves  now  and  then  with  a 
somewhat  absent  air,  as  if  in  all  that  jetsam  and  flotsam  of  the 
poet's  studious  hours  he  hardly  found  a  paragraph  to  enchain 
his  attention. 

What  manner  of  man  is  he,  in  outward  semblance,  as  he  sits 
there  absent  and  meditative,  with  the  broad  summer  daylight  on 
his  face  ?  It  would  be  a  question  if  one  should  call  him  a 
handsome  man.  He  is  distinguished-looking,  perhaps,  rather 
than  handsome;  tall  and  broad-shouldered,  like  the  men  who 
come  from  beyond  the  Tweed;  straight  as  a  dart;  a  man  who 
is  not  dependent  upon  dress  and  surroundings  for  his  dignity, 
but  has  an  indefinable  air  of  being  superior  to  the  common  herd. 
His  features  are  good,  but  not  pai-ticularly  regular,  hardly  coming 
within  the  rule  and  compass  of  archetypal  beauty;  the  nose  a 
thought  too  broad,  the  forehead  too  dominant.  His  skin  is  dark, 
and  has  little  colour,  save  when  he  is  angry  or  deeply  moved, 
when  the  stern  face  glows  briefly  with  a  dark  crimson.  The 
clear  cold  gray  eyes  ai'e  wonderful  in  their  variety  of  expression. 
The  firmly-moulded  yet  flexible  mouth  is  the  best  feature  in  his 
face,  supremely  grave  in  repose,  infinitely  tender  when  he 
smiles. 

He  smiles  suddenly  now,  in  the  course  of  his  reverie,  for  it  is 
clear  enough  that  he  is  thinking,  and  not  reading  Southey's 
agreeable  jottings,  though  his  hand  mechanically  turns  the 
leaves.     He  smiles  a  slow  thoughtful  smile. 

"  What  a  child  she  is,"  he  says  to  himself,  "  with  all  a  child's 
perversity !     I  am  foolish  ever  to  be  angry  with  her." 

He  heard  a  double-knock  from  the  little  brass  knocker  of  Mr. 
Humphreys'  private  door,  shut  his  book  with  an  impatient  sigh, 
got  up  and  walked  to  the  window.  The  Humphreys'  mansion 
was  in  one  of  the  side  streets  of  Hawleigh,  a  street  known  by 
the  rustic  title  of  Field-lane,  which  led  up  a  gentle  hill  to  the 
open  countrjr ;  a  vast  stretch  of  common-land,  sprinkled  sparsley 
on  the  outskirts  with  a  few  scattered  houses  and  a  row  or  two 
of  cottages.  Nor  had  Mr.  Humphreys  any  opposite  neighbours ; 
the  houses  on  the  other  side  stopped  abruptly  a  few  yards  below, 
and  there  was  a  triangular  green,  with  a  pond  and  a  colony  of 
ducks  in  front  of  the  Curate's  casements. 

Malcolm  Forde  looked  out  of  the  window,  expecting  to  see  his 
visitor  waiting  meekly  on  the  spotless  doorstep ;  but  the  door 
had  been  opened  promptly,  and  the  doorstep  was  unoccupied. 
He  looked  at  his  watch  hastily. 

"  I've  been  wasting  too  much  time  already,"  he  said  to  him- 
Bolf,  "  and  here  is  some  one  to  detain  me  ever  so  long.  And  1 
want  to  make  a  good  morning's  round  out  Filbury  way." 

The  medical  practitioners  of  Hawleigh  prided  themselves  oo 


26  Stranc/crs  and  Pilgrims. 

the  crushing  nature  of  their  duties,  yet  there  were  none  among 
them  who  worked  so  hard  as  this  healer  of  souls.  Here  was 
some  tiresome  vestryman,  perhaps,  come  to  prose  for  half  an 
hour  or  so  about  some  jset  grievance,  while  he  was  languishing 
to  be  up  and  doing  among  the  miserable  hovels  at  Filbury, 
where,  amidst  the  fertile  smiling  landscape,  men's  souls  and 
bodies  were  consuming  away  with  a  moral  dry-rot. 

The  door  of  his  sitting-room  opened,  but  not  to  admit  a 
prosing  vestryman.  The  smiling  handmaiden  announced  "  Miss 
Luttrell,  if  you  please,  sir."  And,  lo,  there  stood  before  him  on 
the  threshold  of  his  chamber  the  wilful  woman  he  had  been 
thinking  about  just  now,  gravely  regarding  him,  the  very  image 
of  decorum. 

There  was  some  change  in  her  outward  aspect,  the  details 
whereof  his  masculine  eye  could  not  distinguish.  A  woman 
could  have  told  him  in  a  moment  by  what  means  the  Beauty  had 
contrived  to  transform  herself.  She  was  dressed  in  a  lavender- 
ootton  gown,  with  tight  plain  sleeves,  and  a  linen  collar — no 
bright-hued  ribbon  encircling  the  long  white  throat,  no  flutter 
of  lace  or  glimmer  of  golden  locket,  none  of  the  pretty  frivo- 
lities with  which  she  was  accustomed  to  set-off  her  loveliness. 
She  wore  an  old-fashioned  black-silk  scarf,  a  relic  of  her  dead 
mother's  wardrobe,  which  became  her  tall  slim  figure  to  perfec- 
tion. She,  who  was  wont  to  wear  the  most  coquettish  and 
capricious  of  hats,  the  daintiest  conceit  in  airy  tulle  by  way 
of  a  bonnet,  was  now  crowned  with  a  modest  saucer-shaped 
thing  of  Dunstable  straw,  which  at  this  moment  hid  her  eyes 
altogether  from  Malcolm  Forde.  The  rich  brown  hair,  which 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  display  in  an  elaborate  structure  of 
large  loose  plaits,  was  neatly  braided  under  this  Puritan  head 
gear,  and  packed  into  the  smallest  possible  compass  at  the  back 
of  her  head,  She  had  a  little  basket  in  one  hand,  a  red-covered 
account-book  in  the  other. 

"  If  you  please,  Mr.  Forde,  I  should  like  you  to  give  me  a 
round  of  visits  amongst  your  poor  people,"  she  said,  offering 
him  this  little  volume.  "  I  am  quite  ready  to  begin  my  duties 
to-day." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  at  her,  lost  in  amazement. 
The  provoking  saucer-shaped  hat  covered  her  eyes.  He  could 
only  guess  the  expression  of  her  face  from  her  mouth,  which  was 
gravity  itself. 

'•'  What,  Miss  Luttrell,  do  you  mean  to  help  me,  after  all  you 
said  last  night  ?  " 

"  Did  I  really  say  anything  very  wicked  last  night  ? "  she 
asked  naively,  lifting  her  head  for  a  moment  so  that  her  eyes 
shone  out  at  him  under  the  shadow  of  the  saucer-brim.  Peer- 
less eyes  they  seemed  to  him  in  that  brief  flash,  but  hardly  th  j 


Stranfjrrs  and  Pilr/rims.  27 

most  appropriate  eyes  for  a  district-visitor,  whose  beauty  sliould 
be  of  a  subdued  order,  like  the  colours  of  her  dress. 

"1  don't  know  that  you  said  anything  wicked;  but  you  ex- 
pressed a  profound  disgust  for  district-visiting." 

"  Did  I  ?  It  was  the  last  rebellious  murmur  of  my  unre- 
generate  heart.  But  you  have  awakened  my  conscience,  and  I 
mean  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  to  begin  a  new  existence  in  fact. 
If  the  piano  were  my  property  instead  of  Diana's,  I  think  I 
should  make  a  bonfire  on  the  lawn  and  burn  it.  I  have  serious 
thoughts  of  burning  my  colour  box — Winsor  and  Newton's  too. 
and  papa's  last  birthday  present.  But  you  must  be  kind  enough 
to  make  me  out  a  list  of  the  people  you'd  like  me  to  visit.  I 
don't  want  to  be  a  regular  district-visitor,  or  to  interfere  with 
your  established  sisterhood  in  any  way;  so  I  won't  take  any 
tickets  to  distribute.  I  don't  Avant  the  people  to  associate  me 
with  sacramental  alms.  I  want  to  have  a  little  flock  of  my 
own,  and  to  see  if  I  can  make  them  like  me  for  my  own  sake, 
without  thinking  how  much  they  can  get  out  of  me.  And  if 
you  could  coach  me  a  little  about  what  I  ought  to  say  to  them, 
it  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  me.  Gertrude  says  that  when 
she  feels  herself  at  a  loss  she  says  a  little  jarayer,  and  waits  on 
the  doorstep  for  a  few  minutes,  till  something  comes  to  her. 
But  I'm  afraid  that  plan  would  not  answer  lor  me." 

Mr.  Forde  pushed  one  of  the  heavy  chairs  to  the  writing-table 
near  the  window,  and  asked  Miss  LuttreU  to  sit  down  while  he 
wrote  what  she  wanted  in  the  little  red  book.  She  seated  her- 
self near  one  end  of  the  table,  and  he  sat  down  to  write  at  the 
other. 

"  I  shall  be  vei-y  happy  to  do  what  I  can  to  set  you  going,"  he 
said,  as  he  wrote;  "but  I  should  be  more  assured  of  your  sin- 
cerity if  you  were  less  disposed  to  make  a  joke  of  the  business." 

"A  joke!"  exclaimed  Miss  Luttrell  with  an  aggrieved  air, 
"  why,  I  was  never  in  my  life  so  serious.  Is  this  the  way  in 
which  you  mean  to  treat  my  awakening,  Mr.  Forde  ?  " 

He  handed  her  the  little  book,  with  a  list  of  names  written  on 
the  first  leaf.  "  I  think  you  must  know  something  of  these 
people,"  he  said,  "  after  living  here  all  your  life." 

"  Please  don't  take  anything  for  granted  about  me  with  re- 
ference to  the  poor,"  she  answered  hastily.  "  Of  course  it  is 
abominable  in  me  to  admit  as  much,  but  I  never  have  cared  for 
them.  The  only  ideas  about  them  that  I  have  ever  been  able  to 
grasp  are,  that  they  never  open  their  windows,  and  that  they 
always  want  something  of  one,  and  take  it  ill  if  one  can't  give 
them  the  thing  they  want.  Gertrude  tells  quite  a  different  story, 
and  declares  that  the  serious-minded  souls  are  always  languish- 
-Tig  for  spiritual  refreshment,  that  she  can  make  them  quite 
happy  with  her  prim  little  sermons  and  flimsy  little  tracts, 


28  Strangers  and  Piigrimi. 

Did  you  ever  read  a  tract,  Mr.  Forde  ?  I  don't  mean  a  contro- 
versial pamphlet,  or  anything  of  that  kind;  but  just  one  of 
those  little  puritanical  booklets  that  drop  from  Gertrude  like 
leaves  from  a  tree  in  autumn  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  given  much  leisure  to  that  kind  of  study,"  re- 
plied Malcolm,  with  his  grave  smile.  "I  hope  you  won't  think 
me  unappreciative  of  the  honour  involved  in  this  viSit,  Miss 
Luttrell,  if  I  am  obliged  to  run  away.  I  have  a  round  of  calls 
at  Filbury  to  get  through  this  morning." 

"  You  remind  me  of  poor  mamma,"  said  Elizabeth,  with  a  tribu- 
tary  sigh  to  the  memory  of  that  departed  parent ;  "she  had  alwaya 
a  round  of  calls,  and  they  generally  resolved  themselves  into 
three — a  triangle  of  calls,  in  short.  But  they  were  genteel 
visits,  you  know.  Mamma  never  went  in  for  the  district 
business." 

The  loose  slangy  style  of  her  talk  grated  upon  his  ear  not  a 
little.  He  took  his  hat  and  gloves  from  the  sideboard — a  gentle 
reminder  that  he  was  in  haste  to  be  gone. 

"  I  won't  detain  you  five  minutes  more,"  she  said.  "  How 
nice  the  room  looks  with  all  those  books!  I  know  Mrs. 
Humphreys'  drawing-room  very  well,  though  this  is  my  first 
visit  to  you.  Papa  and  Gertrude  and  I  came  once  to  drink  tea 
with  Mr.  Horton.  He  gave  quite  a  party ;  and  we  had 
concertante  duets  for  the  flute  and  piano — *  Non  piu  mesta,' 
and  '  Di  piacer.'  and  so  on,"  this  with  a  faint  blush,  remem- 
bering her  own  share  in  that  concerted  music.  "  You  should 
have  seen  the  room  in  his  tenancy — Bohemian-glass  vases,  and 
scent  caskets,  and  stereoscopes,  and  photograph  albums ;  but 
very  few  books.  I  think  I  Hke  it  best  with  all  those  grim- 
looking  brown-backed  volumes  of  yours." 

She  made  the  tour  of  the  room  as  she  spoke,  and  paused  by 
the  mantelpiece  to  examine  the  skeleton  clock,  the  cup  and 
saucer,  the  two  portraits. 

"  What  a  grand-looking  old  lady ! — your  mother,  of  course, 
Mr.  Forde  ?  And,  0,  what  a  sweet  face !  "  pausing  before  the 
photograph.     "  Your  sister,  I  suppose  ?  " 

•'  No,"  Mr.  Forde  answered,  somewhat  shortly. 
"  And  what  a  pretty  cup  and  saucer,  under  a  glass  shade !  It 
looks  like  a  reHc  of  some  kind." 
"  It  is  a  reUc." 

The  tone  was  grave,  repellant  even,  and  Elizabeth  felt  she 
had  touched  upon  a  forbidden  subject. 

"  It  belonged  to  his  mother,  I  daresay,"  she  thought ;  "  and 
ne  keeps  it  m  memory  of  the  dead.  I  suppose  all  his  people 
are  dead,  as  he  never  talks  about  them." 

After  this  she  made  haste  to  depart  with  her  little  book, 
knowing  very  well  that  she  had  outraged  all  the  convention- 


Strangers  and  £ilgnm^.  29 

alities  of  Hawleigh,  but  rather  proud  of  having  bearded  this 
lion  of  Judah  in  his  den, 

Mr.  iTorde  left  the  house  with  her,  and  walked  a  little  way  by 
her  side ;  but  was  graver  and  more  silent  than  his  wont,  as  if 
he  had  hardly  recovered  from  the  pain  those  injudicious 
questions  of  hers  had  given  him.  He  parted  from  her  at 
the  entrance  to  a  row  of  cottages,  in  which  dwelt  two  of 
the  matrons  whose  names  he  had  entered  in  her  book. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  do  some 
good,  and  that  you  will  not  be  tired  of  the  work  in  a  week  or 
two." 

"  That's  rather  a  depressing  suggestion,"  said  Ehzabeth.  "  I 
know  you  have  the  worst  possible  opinion  of  me ;  but  I  mean 
to  show  you  how  mistaken  you  have  been.  And  you  really 
ought  to  feel  flattered  by  my  conversion.  Papa  might  have 
preached  at  me  for  a  twelvemonth  without  producing  such  an 
effect." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  your  father  has  so  little  influence 
with  you.  Miss  Luttrell,"  the  Curate  answered  gravely. 

He  left  her  with  the  coldest  good-bye.  The  proud  face 
flushed  crimson  under  the  mushroom  hat  as  she  turned  into  the 
little  alley.  This  morning's  interview  had  not  been  nearly 
so  agreeable  to  her  as  yesterday's  lecture  under  the  limes  at  the 
entrance  to  the  town.  She  began  her  missionary  work  in  a 
very  bad  humour;  but  brightened  by  degrees  as  she  went 
on.  She  was  a  woman  in  whom  the  desire  to  please  dominated 
almost  every  other  attribute,  and  she  was  bent  upon  making 
these  people  like  or  even  love  her.  It  was  not  to  be  a  mere 
spurt,  this  adoption  of  a  new  duty.  She  meant  to  show 
Malcolm  Forde  that  she  could  be  all,  or  more  than  all,  he 
thought  a  woman  should  be — that  she  could  be  as  much 
Gertrude's  superior  in  this  particular  line  as  she  surpassed  her 
in  personal  beauty. 

"Gertrude!"  she  said  to  herself  contemptuously.  "As  if 
poor  people  could  possibly  care  about  Gertrude,  with  her  little 
fidgety  ways,  and  her  Low-Church  tracts,  and  her  passion  for 
Boapsuds  and  hearthstone !  She  has  conti-ived  to  train  her 
people  into  a  subdued  kind  of  civility.  They  look  upon  her 
visits  as  a  necessary  evil,  and  put  up  with  them,  just  as  they 
put  up  with  the  water  coming  through  the  roof,  or  a  pig- 
stye  close  to  the  parlour  window.  But  I  shall  make  my  people 
look  forward  to  my  visits  as  a  bright  little  spot  in  their  hves." 

This  was  rather  an  arrogant  idea,  perhaps ;  but  Ehzabeth 
Luttrell  succeeded  in  realising  it.  She  contrived  to  win  an 
unfaiUng  welcome  in  the  twenty  cottages  which  Mr.  Forde  had 
assigned  to  her.  Nor  was  her  popularity  won  by  bribery 
and  corruption.     She  had  very  little  to  give  her  people,  except 

Q 


30  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

an  occasional  packet  of  barley-sugar  or  a  paper  of  biscuits  for 
the  children,  or  now  and  then  some  cast-off  ribbon  or  other 
ecrap  of  genteel  finery  for  the  mothers.  For  the  sick  children, 
indeed,  she  would  do  anything — empty  her  own  slenderly- 
furnished  purse,  rob  the  cross  old  parsonage  cook  of  her  arrow- 
root, and  loaf-sugar,  and  isinglass,  and  cornflour,  and  ground 
rice,  and  Epps's  cocoa,  and  new-laid  eggs ;  but  it  was  not 
by  gifts  of  any  kind  that  she  made  herself  beloved.  It  was  the 
brightness  and  easy  grace  of  her  manner  rather,  that  delightful 
air  of  being  perfectly  at  home  in  a  tiny  chamber  with  a  reeking 
washtub  at  her  elbow,  a  cradle  at  her  knee,  and  a  line  of  damp 
clothes  steaming  in  close  prosdmity  to  her  hat.  Nothing 
disgusted  her.  She  never  wondered  that  people  could  live  in 
such  dirt  and  muddle.  She  made  her  little  suggestions  of 
improvement — no  blunt  plain-spoken  recommendation  of  soap- 
suds and  hearthstone,  but  insinuating  hints  of  what  might 
be  done  with  a  little  trouble — in  a  manner  that  never  offended. 
And  then  she  was  so  beautiful  to  look  upon ;  the  husbands  and 
wives  were  never  tired  of  admiring  her.  "  Ay,  but  she  be  a  rale 
right-down  beauty,"  they  said,  "  and  thinks  no  more  of  herself 
than  if  she  was  as  ugly  as  sin;"  not  knowing  that  the  fair 
Eliza.beth  was  quite  conscious  of  her  own  loveliness,  and 
hoped  to  turn  it  to  some  good  account  by-and-by. 

Nor  did  Elizabeth  forget,  in  her  desire  for  popularity,  that 
the  chief  object  of  her  mission  among  these  people  was  of 
a  spiritual  kind :  that  she  was  to  carry  enlightenment  and 
religion  into  those  close  pent-up  hovels  where  the  damp  linen 
was  ever  dangling,  the  waehtub  for  ever  reeking ;  where  the 
larder  was  so  often  barren,  and  the  wants  of  mankind  so  small  and 
yet  sometimes  perforce  unsatisfied.  Although  she  was  not  her- 
self, as  Gertrude  expressed  it,  "  seriously  mmded,"  though  her 
thoughts  during  her  father's  sermons,  and  even  during  those  of 
Mr.  Forde,  too  often  wandered  among  the  bonnets  and  mantles 
of  the  congregation,  or  shaped  themselves  into  vague  vision* 
of  the  future,  she  did  notwithstanding  contrive  to  bring  about 
some  improvement  in  the  theory  and  practice  of  her  clients. 
She  persuaded  the  women  to  go  to  church  on  Sunday  evenings, 
if  Sunday-morning  worship  was  really  an  impossible  thing, 
as  the  poor  souls  protested ;  she  induced  the  husbands  to  clean 
themselves  a  couple  of  hours  earlier  than  had  been  their 
Sabbath  custom,  and  to  Bhamble  into  the  dusky  aisle  of 
St.  Clement's  or  St.  Mary's  while  the  tinkling  five-minutes  bell 
was  still  calling  to  loiterers  and  laggards  on  the  way ;  she 
taught  the  little  ones  their  catechism,  rewarding  proficiency 
with  barley-sugar  or  gingerbread;  and  she  sat  by  many  a 
washtub  reading  the  Evangelists  in  her  full  sweet  voice,  while 
the  industrious  noasewife  rubbed  the  sweats  of  labour  from  her 


Strangers  and  Pilgrimi.  31 

husband's  shirt-collars.  She  would  even  starch  and  iron  a 
handful  of  collars  herself,  on  occasion,  if  the  housewife  seemed 
to  set  about  the  business  clumsily. 

"  I  have  to  get-up  my  own  fine  things  sometimes,  or  I  should 

fo  cuffless  and  collarless,"  she   said.     "Papa  is  not  rich,  you 
uow,  Mrs.  Jones."     Whereat  Mrs.  Jones  would  be  struck  with 
amazement  by  her  haiidiness. 

"  I  don't  believe  there's  a  thing  in  this  'varsal  world  as  yo'vi 
can't  do,  Miss  Elizabeth,"  the  admiring  matron  would  cry  witk 
uplifted  hands ;  aiid  even  this  humble  appreciation  of  her  merits 
pleas'^d  Lizzie  Luttrell. 

Her  reading  was  much  liked  by  listeners  who  were  not  com- 
pelled to  sit  with  folded  hands  and  a  brain  perplexed  by  the 
thought  of  neglected  housework.  She  had  a  knack  of  choosing 
the  most  attractive  as  well  as  the  most  profitable  portions  of 
Holy  AVrit,  an  acute  perception  of  the  passages  most  likely  to 
impress  her  hearers. 

"  I  do  like  your  Scriptures,  Miss  Elizabeth,"  said  one  woman. 
"  When  I  was  a  gal,  I  used  to  think  the  Bible  was  all  Saul 
and  the  Philistings — there  seemed  no  end  ot  'em — and  David. 
I  make  no  doubt  David  was  a  dear  good  man,  and  after  the 
Lord's  own  heart;  but  there  did  seem  too  much  of  him.  He 
wasn't  like  Him  as  you  read  about ;  he  didn't  come  home  to  us 
like  that,  miss,  and  you  don't  read  as  he  was  fond  of  little 
children,  except  that  one  of  his  own  that  be  was  so  wrapt  up 
in." 

"The  Gospel  sounds  like  a  pretty  story,  when  you  read  it, 
miss,"  sfiid  another ;  "  and  when  Miss  Gertrude  read,  it  did  seem 
80  sing-song  like.  Sometimes  I  couldn't  feel  as  there  was  any 
sense  in  it,  no  more  than  in  the  Lessons  of  a  hot  summer's 
afternoon,  when  it  seems  only  a  droning,  like  a  hive  of  bees." 

So  Ehzabeth  went  on  and  prospered,  and  grew  really  interested 
in  her  work.  It  was  not  half  so  bad  as  she  had  supposed. 
There  was  muddle'and  there  was  want,  but  not  such  utter  ti-loom 
and  misery  as  she  had  imagined  in  these  hovels.  The  spirits  of 
these  people  were  singularly  elastic.  Ever  so  little  sunshine 
warmed  them  into  new  life;  and,  above  all,  they  liked  her,  and 
praised  her,  and  spoke  well  of  her  to  Malcolm  Forde.  She  knew 
that  from  his  appi-oving  manner,  not  from  anything  he  had  dis- 
tinctly said  upon  the  subject. 

Earely  had  she  met  with  him  on  her  rounds.  The  list  he  had 
trlven  her  included  only  easy  subjects — jseople  who  would  not  be 
likely  to  repulse  her  attentions,  homes  in  which  she  would  not 
iiear  foul  language  or  see  dreadful  sights— and  having  allotted 
her  path-way,  he  was  content  that  she  should  follow  it  with 
very  little  assistance  from  him,  and  even  took  pains  to  time 
his  own  visits,  so  as  to  avoid  any  encounter  with  h«r. 


82  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

He  did,  however,  on  rare  occasions  find  her  among  his  flock. 
Not  easily  did  he  forget  one  summer  afternoon,  when  he  saw 
her  sitting  by  an  open  cottage  window  with  a  sick  child  in  her 
lap.  That  figure  in  a  pale  muslin  dress,  with  tho  afternoon 
sunshine  upon  it,  lived  in  his  memory  long. 

"  If  I  could  only  believe  that  she  was  quite  in  earnest,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "that  this  new  work  of  hers  has  some  safer 
charm  than  its  novelty,  I  should  think  her  the  sweetest  woman 
I  ever  met— except  one." 

jlizabeth  had  been  engaged  in  these  duties  for  two  months, 
and  had  done  her  work  faithfully.  It  was  the  end  of  August, 
the  brilliant  close  of  a  summer  that  had  been  exceptionally 
fine ;  harvest  just  begun  in  this  western  land,  and  occasional 
tracts  of  tawny  stubble  baking  under  a  cloudless  blue  sky; 
hazel-nuts  and  wortle-berries  ripening  in  the  woods ;  great  sloe- 
trees  shedding  their  purple  fruit  in  every  hedge;  a  rain  of 
green  apples  falling  on  the  orchard  grass  with  every  warm 
eouth  wind;  the  red  plums  swelling  and  purphng  on  the 
garden  wall — a  vision  of  plenty  and  the  perfume  of  roses  and 
carnations  on  every  side. 

"If  we  don't  have  that  picnic  you  talked  about  very  soon, 
Gerty,  we  shan't  have  it  at  all,"  remarked  the  youngest  and 
the  pertest  of  the  four  sisters  at  breakfast  one  _  morning, 
when  Mr.  Luttrell  had  mthdrawn  himself  to  his  daily  duties, 
and  the  damsels  were  left  to  enjoy  half  an  hour's  idleness 
and  talk  over  empty  coffee-cups  and  shattered  eggshells  and 
other  fragments  of  the  feast.  "  The  summer's  nearly  over,  you 
see,  Gerty,  and  if  we  don't  take  care  we  shall  lose  all  the 
fine  weather.  I've  no  doubt  there'll  be  a  deluge  after  all 
this  sunshine." 

Blanche  always  called  her  eldest  sister  "Gerty"  when  she 
wanted  some  indulgence  from  that  important  personage. 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  say,  Blanche," 
T?plioi  Miss  Luttrell  with  provoking  coolness,  as  if  picnics  and 
f-ifsuch  sublunary  pleasures  were  utterly  beneath  her  regard; 
strong,  too,  in  her  authority  as  her  father's  housekeeper,  and 
conscious  that  her  sisters  must  bow  down  and  pay  her  homage 
for  whatever  they  wanted,  like  Joseph's  brethren  in  quest 
of  corn.  "  I  really  think,"  she  went  on  with  a  deliberate  air, 
"  as  the  summer  is  nearly  gone,  we  may  as  well  give  up  any 
notion  of  a  picnic  this  year,  especially  as  papa  doesn't  seem 
to  care  much  about  it." 

"Papa  never  seems  to  care  about  anything  that  costa 
money,"  cried  the  disrespectful  youngest.  "  He'd  like  life 
well  enough  if  everything  in  it  could  be  carried  on  for  nothing; 
If  his  children  could  be  born  and  educated,  and  fed  and  clothed. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  33 

And  doctored  and  nursed,  and  introduced  to  society  gratis, 
so  that  he  could  have  all  the  pew-rents  and  burial-fees  and 
things  to  put  in  the  bank.  It's  very  mean  of  you  to  talk 
like  that,  Gertrude,  and  want  to  sneak  out  of  the  picnic,  wheu 
it's  about  the  only  return  we're  likely  to  make  for  all  the 
croquet  jiarties  and  dinners  and  teas  and  goodness  knows  what 
that  our  friends  have  given  us  since  Christmas." 

"Really,  Blanche,  you  are  learning  to  render  yourself 
eminently  disagreeable,"  Miss  Luttrell  observed  severely, 
"  and  I  fear  if  papa  does  not  face  the  necessity  of  sending 
you  back  to  school  to  be  finished,  your  deficiency  in  manner 
will  be  your  absolute  ruin  in  after-life." 

"  Never  mind  Blanche's  manner,"  interposed  Diana,  "  but 
let's  talk  about  the  picnic.  Of  course  we  must  have  one.  We 
always  have  had  one  for  the  last  five  years,  since  the  summer 
after  poor  mamma's  death, — I  know  we  were  all  in  slight 
mourning  at  the  first  of  them, — and  our  friends  exjject  it.  So 
the  only  question  is,  where  are  we  to  go  this  year  ?  " 

This  was  intended  in  somewise  as  an  assertion  of  indepen- 
dence on  the  part  of  the  second  Miss  Luttrell,  who  did  not 
intend  to  be  altogether  overridden  by  the  chariot  of  an  elder 
sister,  even  though  that  elder  had  bidden  a  long  farewell  to  the 
golden  summer-tide  of  her  twenty-eighth  year. 

"  Elizabeth  won't  go,  of  course,  now  she's  turned  serious,'* 
said  Blanche,  with  a  sly  glance  at  Lizzie,  who  sat  leisurely 
watching  the  skirmish,  with  her  head  against  the  clumsy  frame 
of  the  lattice,  and  the  south  wind  gently  stirring  her  dark- 
brown  hair,  a  perfect  picture  of  idle  loveliness. 

"  You'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  picnic,  of  course,  Lizzie, 
not  even  if  Malcolm  Forde  goes,"  pursued  the  "  Pickle  "  of  the 
family. 

"Who  gave  you  leave  to  call  him  Malcolm?"  flashed  out 
Elizabeth. 

"  No  one  ;  but  why  shouldn't  one  enjoy  oneself  in  the  bosom 
of  one's  family.  I  like  to  call  him  Malcolm  Forde,  it's  such 
a  pretty  name ;  and  one  ought  to  get  accustomed  to  tha 
Christian  name  of  one's  future  brother-in-law." 

Two  of  the  Miss  Luttrells  flushed  crimson  at  this  speech : 
Gertrude,  who  turned  angrily  upon  the  speaker,  as  if  about 
to  retort;  and  Elizabeth,  whose  swift  reply  came  like  a  flash  of 
lightning,  before  her  senior  could  reprove  the  oflender. 

"  How  dare  you  say  that,  Blanche  P  Do  you  supj^ose  that  i 
would  marry  Mr.  Forde — a  Curate — even  if  he  were  to  ask  me?" 

"  I  won't  suppose  anything  till  lie  does  ask  you,"  answered 
the  incorrigible;  "and  then  I  know  pretty  well  what  will 
happen.  Whatever  fine  notions  you  may  have  had  about  a 
rich  husband,  and  a  house  in  London,  and  an  opera-box,  and 


34  Strangers  and  Pil/jrims. 

goodness  knows  what,  will  all  count  for  nothing  the  day  that 
Malcolm  Forde  makes  you  an  offer.  "Why,  you  worship  the 
ground  he  walks  on.  Do  you  think  we  can't  all  of  us  see 
through  your  district- visiting  ?  A  pretty  freak  for  you  to  take 
up,  after  admitting  that  you  detested  such  work  !  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is  not  (juite  unnatural  that  one  should  try 
to  overcome  one's  dislikes,  and  to  do  some  good  in  the  world," 
replied  Elizabeth  with  dignity.  "  Have  the  goodness  to  bridle 
your  tongue  a  little,  Blanche;  and  rest  assured  that  I  shall 
never  marry  a  Curate,  be  he  whom  he  may." 

"But  Mr.  Forde  is  not  like  common  Curates.  He  is 
independent  of  the  Church.     He  has  private  means." 

"  Yes ;  three  or  four  hundred  a  year  from  a  small  estate  in 
Aberdeenshire." 

"  0,  you  have  been  making  inquiries,  then  P  " 
"No;  but  I  heard  papa  say  as  much,  one  day.     And  now, 
Blanche,  be  so  kind  as  to  abandon  the  discussion  of  my  aflfairs, 
and  of  Mr.  Forde's,  and  let  us  talk  of  the  picnic.      I  say  Law- 
borough  Beeches." 

This  "  I  say  "  was  uttered  in  a  tone  of  authority,  unbefitting 
a  third  sister;  and  Gertrude  immediately  determined  not  to 
brook  any  such  usurpation ;  but  it  somehow  generally  happened 
that  Elizabeth  had  her  own  way.  She  had  a  happy  knack 
of  suggesting  the  right  thing. 

"  Lawborough  Beeches  is  a  jolly  place !  "  said  Blanche  ap- 
provingly. 

"  When  will  you  learn  to  abandon  the  use  of  that  odious 
nr^eciive  ?  "  cried  Gertrade  with  a  shudder.  "  Lawborough 
Beeches  is  low  and  damp." 

"  Well,  I'd  as  soon  have  it  on  the  moor,  and  we  could  have 
donkey  races  and  no  end  of  fun." 

"Was  there  ever  a  girl  with  such  vulgar  ideas?  Donkey 
races  ?  Imagine  Mr.  Forde  riding  a  donkey  with  a  piece  of 
white  calico  on  its  back  !  And  imagine  picnicking  on  the 
moor,  without  a  vestige  of  shade !  A  nice  blistered  state 
our  faces  would  be  in !  and  I  should  have  one  of  m;^  nervous 
headaches,"  said  Diana,  who  had  a  kind  of  copyright  in  several 
interesting  ailments  of  the  nervine  type. 

Lawborough  Beeches  was  a  little  wood  of  ancient  trees,  with 
silver-gray  trunks  and  spreading  crests;  beecnes  which  had 
been  pollarded  in  the  days  when  Cromwell  rode  rough-shod  oyer 
the  land,  and  had  stretched  out  their  mighty  limbs  low  and  wide 
in  the  centuries  that  had  gone  by  since  then.  It  was  a  little 
wood  lying  in  a  green  hollow,  through  which  the  Tabor 
meandered— a  silvery  stream  dear  to  the  soul  of  the  tiy-fisher; 
here  dark  and  placid  as  a  lake,  under  the  broad  shadow  of  the 
trees ;  there  flowing  with  swift  current  towards  the  distant  weir. 


strangers  and  Pihjrinis.  35 

Miss  Luttrell  acknowledged  somewhat  unwillingly,  after  a 
good  deal  of  discussion,  that  the  Beeches  was  perhaps  the  best 
place  for  the  picnic,  if  the  picnic  were  really  a  social  necessity. 

"I  must  confess  that  I  do  not  see  it  in  that  light,"  she 
said,  "  and  I  rather  wonder  that  you  should  do  so,  Elizabeth, 
now  that  your  mind  has  been  awakened  to  loftier  interests. 
'fhe  sum  which  thLs  picnic  will  cost  would  be  a  great  help  to  our 
blanket  club  next  winter." 

Elizabeth  pondered  for  a  few  moments.     Of  course  she  was 
anxious  to  help  those  poor  people  who  were  so  fond  of  her ;  but 
the  winter  was  a  long  way  off.     Providence  might  increase  lier 
means  in  some  unthougM-of  manner  by  that  time.    And  the 
near  delight  of  a  long  summer  afternoon  with  Malcolm  Forda 
imder  Lawborough  Beeches  was  very  sweet  to  her.     She  had 
seen  so  httle  of  hmi  of  late.    The  very  change  in  herself,  which 
she  had  fancied  would  bring  them  nearer  together,  seemed  to 
have  only  the  more  divided  them.     She  did  not  meet  him  halt 
Bo  often  as  in  her  unregenerate  days,  when  she  had  been  always 
strolling  in  and  out  of  Hawleigh,  to  change  books  at  the  library; 
or  to  buy  a  new  song,  or  a  yard  or  two  of  ribbon ;  or  to  look  at 
the  last  Paris  fashions,  which  the  chief  linendraper  had  just 
received — from  Plymouth. 

"  We  ought  to  make  some  return  for  people's  hospitality,"  shft 
said.    "  I  consider  the  picnic  unavoidable." 

So  Blanche  produced  a  sheet  of  foolscap,  and  began  to  make 
out  a  formidable  list  of  comestibles :  pigeon-pies,  chicken-salads, 
lobsters,  plovers'  eggs,  galantine  of  veal,  hams,  tongues,  salmon 
en  mayonnaise,  and  so  on,  with  a  wild  profusion  that  seems  so 
easy  in  pen-and-ink. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  be  so  officious,  Blanche,"  exclaimed 
the  eldest  Miss  Luttrell.  "  Of  course,  I  shall  arrange  all  those 
details  with  Susan  Sims." 

Susan  Sims  was  the  cook — an  important  functionary  in  the 
Vicar's  household — who  managed  Miss  Luttrell. 

"  That  means  that  we  are  to  have  whatever  Susan  likes  to 
give  us ! "  said  Blanche.  "  You  do  give  way  to  her  so,  Gertrude. 
I  think  I'd  rather  have  a  bad  cook,  and  one's  dinner  spoilt  occa- 
sionally, if  one  could  order  just  what  one  hked.  However,  I 
suppose,  if  I  mayn't  make  out  a  hst  of  the  dinner,  I  may  make 
a  list  of  the  people  P  " 

"  Yes,  you  can,  if  you'll  take  your  inkstand  to  another  table. 
Tou've  made  a  blot  upon  the  table-cloth  already." 

Upon  this,  the  three  elder  damsels  separated  to  pursue  their 
divers  occupations:  Gertrude  to  hold  solemn  converse  with 
Susan  Sims ;  Diana  to  practise  Mendelssohn's  sonatas  on  the 
drawing-room  piano;  Elizabeth  to  her  district- visiting ;  leaving 
Blanche  wallowing  in  ink,  and  swelling  with  importance,  as  she 


86  Strangers  and  Pilgrimt. 

wrote  the  names  of  her  father's  friends  on  two  separate  sheet* 
of  foolscap — the  people  who  must  be  invited  upon  one,  the  people 
who  might  or  might  not  be  invited  upon  the  other. 

Mr.  Luttrell  happened  to  be  at  home  for  luncheon  that  day — 
a  privilege  which  he  was  not  permitted  to  enjoy  more  than  once 
or  twice  a  week — so  the  sisters  were  able  to  moot  the  question 
of  the  picnic  without  delay. 

The  Vicar  rubbed  his  bald  forehead  thoughtfully,  with  a  per- 
plexed sigh. 

"  I  suppose  we  must  do  something,"  he  said  dolefully.  "  It's 
H  long  time  since  we've  had  a  dinner-party ;  and  if  you  think 
people  really  like  their  dinner  any  better  on  damp  grass,  Gertrude, 
and  with  flies  dropping  into  their  wine,  why,  have  a  picnic  by  all 
means.  There's  always  an  immense  deal  of  wine  drunk  at  these 
ttffairs,  by  the  way ;  young  men  are  so  officious,  and  go  opening 
bottles  on  the  least  provocation.  Be  sure  you  remind  me  to 
write  and  order  some  of  the  Ball-supper  Champagne  and  the 
Racecourse  Moselle  we  saw  advertised  the  other  day." 

The  matter  was  settled,  therefore,  pleasantly  enough,  and  the 
invitations  were  written  that  afternoon,  and  distributed  before 
nightfall  by  the  parsonage  gardener  or  man-of-all-work,  Mr. 
Forde's  invitation  among  them ;  a  formal  Uttle  note  in  Gertrude's 
hand,  which  he  twisted  about  in  his  fingers  for  a  long  time  while 
he  meditated  upon  his  answer. 

Would  it  do  him  any  good  to  waste  a  summer  day  under  Law- 
borough  Beeches  ?  He  had  been  working  his  hardest  for  some 
weeks  without  relaxation  of  any  kind.  He  felt  that  he  wanted 
rest  and  ease ;  but  hardly  this  species  of  recreation,  which  would 
involve  a  great  deal  of  trouble;  for  he  would  be  required  to  make 
himself  agreeable  to  all  manner  of  people — to  carry  umbrellas 
and  camp-stools ;  to  point  out  interesting  objects  in  the  land- 
scape; to  quote  the  county  history — and,  in  fact,  to  labour  assi- 
duously for  the  pleasure  of  other  people.  Nor  had  he  ever  felt 
himself  any  the  better  for  these  rustic  pleasures ;  considerably 
the  worse  rather,  especially  when  they  were  shared  with  Elizabeth 
Luttrell. 

No;  better  to  waste  his  day  in  utter  loneliness  on  the  moor, 
under  the  shadow  of  a  mighty  tor,  with  a  book  lying  unread  at 
his  side.  Better  to  give  himself  a  pause  of  perfect  rest,  in  which 
to  think  out  the  great  problem  of  his  life.  For  without  inordinate 
eelf-esteem,  Malcolm  Forde  was  a  man  who  deemed  that  his 
existence  ought  to  be  of  some  use  to  the  world,  that  he  was 
destined  to  fill  some  place  in  the  scheme  of  creation.  He  felt 
that  al-frcsco  banquetings  and  junketings  were  just  the  idlest, 
most  worthless  use  that  he  could  make  of  his  rare  leisure ;  and 
yet,  with  very  human  inconsistency,  he  wrote  to  Mifiu  Luttrell 
i.ext  mornini;  to  accept  her  kind  invitation. 


Strangers  and  Filgrimu  87 

CHAPTER  IV. 

' '  0  you  gods  ! 
Why  do  you  make  us  love  your  goodly  gifts, 
And  snatch  tbem  straight  away  ?     We,  here  below, 
Recall''uot  what  we  give,  and  therein  may 
Vie  honour  with  yourselves." 

A  PERFECT  lull  in  the  summer  winds,  a  sultry  silence  in  the  air ; 
Tabor  lying  stilly  under  the  beeches,  dark  and  polished  as  a 
mirror  of  Damascus  steel,  not  a  bulrush  on  its  niargent,  not  a 
lily  trembling  on  its  bosom.  There  seemed  almost  a  profanity 
in  happy  talk  and  laughter  in  that  silent  wood,  where  the  great 
beeches  that  were  crop-eared  by  Cromwell  spread  their  gnarled 
Umbs  under  the  hot  blue  sky. 

Mr.  Luttrell's  party,  however,  do  not  pause  in  their  mirth  to 
consider  the  fitness  of  things.  It  boots  not  them  to  ask  whether 
Lawborough  Beeches  be  not  a  scene  more  suited  to  Miltonio 
musings  than  to  the  consumption  of  lobster-salad  and  galantine 
de  veau.  They  ask  each  other  for  salt,  and  bread,  and  bitter 
ale,  while  the  lark  pierces  the  toijmost  heavens  with  purest 
melody.  They  set  champagne  corks  flying  against  the  giant 
beechen  trunks.  They  revel  in  clotted  cream  and  syllabub,  and 
small  talk  and  flirtation,  amidst  the  solemn  shadows  of  that 
leafy  dell;  and  then,  when  they  have  spent  nearly  two  hours  in 
a  business-like  absorption  of  solids  and  fluids,  or  in  playing 
trifling  with  the  lightest  of  the  viands,  as  the  case  may  be,  the 
picnickers  abandon  the  scene  of  the  banquet,  and  wander  away 
in  little  clusters  of  three  or  four,  or  in  solitary  couples,  dispersing 
themselves  throughout  the  wood,  nay  even  beyond,  to  a  broad 
stretch  of  rugged  heath  that  borders  it  on  one  side,  or  to  the 
slope  of  a  hill  which  shelters  it  on  the  other.  Some  tempt  the 
dangers  of  smooth-faced  Tabor  in  Fred  Melvin's  trim-built 
wherry,  or  in  the  punt  which  has  conveyed  a  brace  of  Oxonians, 
James  and  Horace  Elgood,  the  sons  of  one  of  the  squires  whose 
broad  pastures  border  the  town  of  Hawleigh. 

Mr.  Melvin  has  been  anxious  that  EHzabeth  should  trust 
herself  upon  that  silver  flood. 

"You  know  you're  fond  of  boating,"  he  pleads;  "and  if  you 
Haven't  seen  much  of  the  Tabor  this  way,  it's  worth  your  while 
to  come.  The  banks  are  a  picture — no  end  of  flowers—'  I  know 
a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  grows,'  and  that  kind  of  thing. 
One  would  think  Shakespeare  had  taken  his  notion  from  here- 
abouts." 

"  As  if  the  Avon  had  no  thymy  banks!  "  exclaimed  Elizabeth 
contemptuously.  "I  don't  care  aboiit  boating  this  afternoon, 
thank  you,  Mr.  Melvin.     T  am  going  for  a  walk." 


'CS  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

She  glanced  at  Malcolm  Forde  as  she  spoke,  almost  plead* 
\ngly,  as  if  she  would  have  said,  Give  me  one  idle  hour  or  your 
life.  They  had  sat  apart  at  the  banquet,  Gertrude  having  con- 
trived to  keep  the  Curate  at  her  side ;  they  had  travelled  from 
Hawleigh  in  different  carriages,  and  had  exchanged  hardly  hall 
a  dozen  sentences  up  to  this  stage  of  the  entertainment.  It 
seemed  to  Elizabeth  as  if  they  were  fated  never  to  be  together. 
Already  she  began  to  think  the  picnic  a  failure.  "  I  only 
wanted  it  for  the  sake  of  being  with  him,"  she  said  to  herself 
hopelessly. 

And  here  was  that  empty-headed  Fred  Melvin  worrying  her 
to  go  ill  his  boat,  while  Malcolm  Forde  stood  by,  leaning  against 
the  gray  trunk  of  a  pollard  willow,  hstlessly  gazing  at  the  river, 
and  said  never  a  word. 

"  Let  Forde  punt  you  down  the  river  as  far  as  the  weir,"  cried 
one  of  the  Oxonians,  coming  unconsciously  to  her  relief.  "  There's 
an  empty  punt  lying  idle  yonder,  the  one  that  brought  the  Towers 
party;  and  Forde  was  one  of  the  best  punters  at  Oxford." 

Mr.  Forde  had  gone  up  for  his  degree  at  a  late  stage  of  his 
existence,  after  he  left  the  army,  and  his  repute  was  known  tc 
these  youngsters. 

"  There's  nothing  like  a  punt  in  this  kind  of  weather,  Miss 
Luttrell,"  said  the  Oxonian,  as  he  rolled  up  his  shirt-sleeves  and 
prepared  himself  to  convey  a  boatload  of  young  ladies  in  volu- 
minous muslin  skirts ;  "  such  a  nice  lazy  way  of  getting  along." 

He  stood  up  high  above  his  freight,  plunged  his  pole  deep 
into  the  quiet  water,  and  skimmed  athwart  the  river  with  a  slow 
noiseless  motion  soothing  to  see  upon  a  summer  afternoon,  while 
Elizabeth  was  silently  blessing  him. 

Mr.  Forde  did  at  last  awake  from  his  reverie. 

"  Shall  I  get  the  punt  ?  "  he  asked ;  "  and  will  you  come  ?  " 

"I  should  like  it  of  all  things,"  she  answered  gently.  She 
was  not  going  to  hazard  the  loss  of  this  perfect  happiness  by 
any  ill-timed  coquetry.  Yes,  it  was  perfect  happiness  to  be  with 
him.  She  acknowledged  as  much  as  that  to  herself,  if  she  did 
not  acknowledge  any  more. 

"  I  suppose  I  think  so  much  of  him  simply  because  he  thinks 
nothing  of  me,"  she  said  to  herself  musingly,  while  Mr.  Forde 
had  gone  a  httle  way  down  the  bank  to  fetch  the  punt. 

He  came  back  presently,  with  his  coat  off  and  his  sleeves 
rolled  up  like  the  Oxonian's,  skilfully  navigating  his  rude  bark 
with  lengthy  vigorous  arms  that  had  pulled  in  the  university 
eight.  It  was  the  first  time  that  Elizabeth  had  seen  him  on  the 
river,  and  she  wondered  a  little  to  find  him  master  of  this 
Becular  accomplishment.  He  brought  the  broad  stem  of  the 
punt  against  the  bank  at  her  feet. 

"  Wouldn't  your  sister  Blanche  like  to  go  with  us?  "  he  asked. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  30 

lo'ilving  round  in  quest  of  that  youag  lady.  But  Blanche  had 
guue  off  in  the  wheiTy  with  the  Melvin  set— Miss  Pooley,  the 
doctor's  daughter;  the  Miss  Cumdens,  the  nch  manufactnrer'a 
daughters;  Captain  Danvers,  and  Mr.  Pynscnt.  Slirill  laughter 
sounded  from  the  reedy  shores  beyond  the  sharp  curve  of  the 
river.  Even  James  Elgood's  punt  was  out  of  sight.  They  had 
the  river  all  to  themselves.  Utter  loneliness  secnied  to  have 
come  upon  the  scene.  The  sound  of  that  shrill  laughter 
dwindled  and  died  away,  and  these  two  stood  alone  in  the 
Bweet  summer  silence,  between  sunlight  and  shadow,  on  the 
brink  of  deep  still  Tabor. 

Elizabeth  lingered  on  the  bank,  doubtful  whether  it  would  not 
be  the  properer  course  to  wait  for  some  stray  reveller  to  join  them 
before  she  took  her  place  in  the  boat.  A  tcte-d-tete  excursion 
with  Mr.  Forde  would  entail  sundry  lectures  from  Gertrude,  a 
general  sense  of  disapproval  perhaps  in  her  small  world.  But 
Malcolm  Forde  stretched  out  his  strong  arm  and  calmly  handed 
her  into  the  punt.  It  was  quite  a  luxurious  kind  of  boat,  as 
j)unt3  go,  provided  with  a  red  cushion  on  one  of  the  broad 
clumsy  seats,  and  a  tin  vessel  for  bailing  out  unnecessary 
water. 

She  seated  herself  in  the  stern,  and  thoy  drifted  away  slowly, 
doftly  over  the  still  blue  water.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had 
been  together,  and  alone,  since  the  morning  when  she  called 
upon  him  at  his  lodgings. 

For  some  time  there  was  silence,  sweet  silence,  only  broken  by 
the  hum  of  insect  life  around  them,  and  the  skylark's  song  in 
the  clear  vault  above.     The  navigation  of  a  puut  is  not  a  very 
difficult  business ;  but  it  requires  some  attention,  and  Tabor's 
windings  involved  some  small  amount  of  care  in  the  navigation. 
This  made  a  fair  excuse  for  i\Ir.  Forde's  silence,  and  ElizaLelli 
was  content — content  to  watcli  the  dark  thoughtful  face,  the 
firmly-cut  profile,  the  deep  gray  eyes,  grave  almost  to  severity ; 
content  to  ponder  on  his  life,  wondering  if  it  were  hard  work 
and  careful  thought  for  others  thtit  had  blanched  the  ruddier 
tints  from  his  somewhat  sunken  cheek,  or  whether  he  was  by 
nature  pale;  wondering  if  that  grave  dignity,  which  made  him 
different  from  the  common  race  of  curates,  wpre  <<    earnest  of 
future  eminence,  if  he  were  verily   liorn   to   greatness,  an^  a 
bishopric  awaiting  him  in  the  duys  to  come;    wondering  iJly 
about  this  thing  aud  that,  her  iancies  playing  rour.d  him,  like 
the   flickering  shadows  on  his  figure  as  the  boat   shot   under 
the  trees,  and  she  supremely  content  to  be  in  his   company. 
Eerhaps,  since  she  had  more  than  all  a  woman's  faults  and 
weaknesses,  it  may  have  been  some  gratification  to  her  to  con- 
sider that  this  boating  excursion  would  occasion  some  jealous 
twinges  in  the  wrll-crdered  mind  of  her  eldest  sister. 


4U  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

**  Gertrude  has  such  a  way  of  appropriating  people,"  she  saii 
to  herself,  "and  I  really  believe  Mr.  Forde  considers  her  a 
paragon." 

The  navigation  grew  easier  by-and-by,  as  Tabor  became  less 
weedy.  The  banks,  now  high  and  broken,  now  sloping  gently, 
were  rich  in  varying  beauty;  but  it  was  not  of  wild  flowers  or 
shivering  rushes  that  Elizabeth  thought  in  that  slow  summer 
voyage.  The  banks  slid  by  like  j^ictures  gently  shifting  as  she 
looked;  now  a  herd  of  lazy  kine,  fetlock  deep  in  the  odorous 
after-math,  and  then  a  little  copse  of  ancient  hawthorn,  and 
then  a  silveiy  creek  darkly  shadowed  here  and  there  by  drooping 
willows  that  had  grown  aslant  the  stream.  She  was  faintly 
consciows  of  these  things,  and  felt  a  vague  delight  in  them ;  but 
her  thoughts  were  all  of  Malcolm  Forde. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  that  story  of  Andrew  Marvell's  father?  " 
he  said  at  last,  breaking  that  lazy  silence  which  had  seemed 
only  a  natural  element  of  the  warm  summer  afternoon. 
There  was  a  straight  stretch  of  water  now  before  him ;  so  he 
laid  down  his  jiole,  and  seated  himself  in  the  bows  with  a  pair 
of  sculls.  "  He  was  a  Hull  man,  yow.  know,  and  a  clergyman, 
and  was  going  across  the  Humber  to  marry  a  couple  in  Lincoln- 
shire. He  was  seized  with  a  strange  presentiment  on  stepping 
into  the  boat,  and  flung  his  walking-stick  ashore,  crying,  '  Ho, 
for  heaven ! '  The  presage  was  not  a  false  one,  for  old  Marvell 
was  drowned.  The  story  came  into  my  mind  just  now,  when  we 
left  the  bank,  and  I  couldn't  help  feeling  that  it  would  be  a 
pleasant  way  of  solving  the  problem  of  life  to  shoot  mid-stream 
at  random,  crying  out,  '  Ho,  for  heaven  ! '  like  that  old  puritac 
parson." 

"  It  would  be  very  nice  if  heaven  could  be  reached  so  easily," 
said  Elizabeth,  who  had  a  feeling  that  for  her  the  pilgrimage 
from  this  world  tr  a  better  one  must  needs  be  difiicult.  She 
had  never  yet  felt  herself  heavenly-minded;  of  the  earth,  earthy 
rather,  with  mimdane  longings  for  an  opera-box  and  a  barouche- 
and-pair. 

"  But  I  did  not  think  you  were  tired  of  life,  Mr.  Forde,"  she 
added,  after  a  little  pause. 

"ISloi  «xa?tlv  tired,  but  at  times  perplexed.  I  sometimeL 
doubt  whether  I  am  doing  much  good  in  Hawleigh — whether, 
indeed,  I  am  doing  anything  that  a  man  of  less  energy  and 
ambition  might  not  do  just  as  well." 

"  You  feel  like  an  eagle  doing  the  work  of  a  crow,"  she 
answered,  smiling.  "  I  can  fancy  that  Hawleigh  must  seem  a 
narrow  field  for  you.  When  you  have  persuaded  people  to  de« 
corate  the  churches,  and  attend  the  early  services,  and  taught  the 
choir  to  sing  a  little  better,  and  bought  surplices  for  the  boys,  it 
eeems  as  if  there  was  nothing  left  for  you  to  do.   I  should  think  in 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  41 

a  populous  seaport,  now,  wliere  there  are  narrow  streets  and  a 
great  many  wicked  people,  you  would  have  a  wider  sphere." 

"  There  might  be  more  to  do  in  a  place  of  that  kind,"  he  said 
thoughtfully.  "  It  wouldn't  seem  quite  so  much  like  a  gardcner'a 
work  in  a  trim  smooth  garden,  always  going  over  the  same  flower- 
beds, dragging  up  a  little  weed  here  and  there,  or  cutting  a 
withered  branch.  But  that  is  not  my  dream.  The  field  ot 
action  that  I  have  thought  about  and  longed  for  lies  far  away 
from  England." 

He  was  looking,  not  at  Elizabeth,  but  above  her  head,  along 
the  shining  river,  as  if  he  did  indeed  with  his  bodily  eyes  be- 
hold that  wider  land,  that  distant  world  of  which  he  spoke. 

Elizabeth  grew  pale  with  horror. 

"  You  surely  don't  mean  that  you  have  ever  thought  of  turn- 
ing missionary  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  That  has  been  my  thought  sometimes,  when  my  work  here 
has  seemed  wasted  labour." 

She  was  inexpressibly  shocked.  The  very  idea  was  disagi-ee- 
able  to  her.  There  was  even  a  kind  of  commonness,  in  hei 
mind,  in  the  image  of  a  missionary.  She  imagined  him  a  Low 
Church  person,  not  very  far  removed  from  a  dissenter,  a  mar 
who  let  his  hair  grow  long  and  was  indifferent  as  to  the  fashion  o . 
his  garments;  such  a  man  as  she  had  heard  hold  forth,  in  short 
trousers  and  thick  boots,  at  a  meeting  for  the  propagation  of 
the  Gospel.  She  did  not  imagine  that  the  commonness  was 
in  her  own  mind,  which  could  not  perceive  the  width  and  gran- 
deur in  that  sublime  idea  of  gathering  all  the  nations  into  one 
Hock.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  South  Sea  Islanders 
were  of  any  importance  in  the  scheme  of  creation,  that  univer- 
sity men  in  this  privileged  quarter  of  the  globe  owed  any  duty 
to  dusky  heathens  dancing  strange  dances  in  distant  groves  of 
palm  and  breadfruit  trees  under  a  hot  blue  sky. 

"  0,  I  hope  you  will  never  think  of  such  a  desperate  thing," 
she  said  with  a  little  piteous  look  that  touched  him  strangely. 
"  It  seems  a  kind  of  moral  suicide." 

"  Say  rather  a  second  birth,"  he  answered :  "  the  beginning  of 
a  new  and  wider  life — a  life  worth  living." 

"  You  must  care  very  little  for  any  one  on  this  side  of  tha 
world,  when  you  can  talk  so  calmly  of  going  to  the  other." 

"  I  have  very  few  to  care  for,"  he  replied  gravely.  "  My 
family  ties  are  represented  by  a  bachelor  uncle  in  Aberdeenshire 
— a  grim  old  man,  who  firms  a  wild  sheep-walk  of  five  thousand 
acres  or  so,  and  lives  in  a  lonely  homestead,  where  he  hears  few 
sounds  except  the  lowing  of  his  kiue  and  the  roar  of  the 
German  Ocean.  I  tbmk  1  am  just  the  right  kind  of  man  for  a 
missionary  ;  and  if  j  ou  knew  the  story  of  my  life,  and  the  cir- 
cumstance that  led  to  my  change  of  profession,  I  fancy  you 
would  agree  with  va( ." 


42  Stranrjers  and  Pilgrims. 

"  But  I  know  nothing  of  your  life,"  Elizabeth  cried  im« 
patiently.  She  was  unreasonably  angry  with  him  for  this  mis- 
sionary project,  almost  as  angry  as  if  it  had  been  a  deliberate 
wrong  done  to  herself.  "  You  came  to  us  a  stranger,  and  you 
have  remained  a  stranger  to  us,  though  you  have  been  at 
Hawleigh  more  than  a  year.  You  are  so  reserved — not  like 
papa's  other  curates,  who  were  only  too  glad  to  pour  out  their 
inmost  feelings,  as  it  were.  I'm  sure  I  knew  every  detail  of  Mr. 
Dysart's  family — his  papa's  opinions,  his  mamma's  little  pecu- 
liarities, the  colour  of  all  his  sisters'  hair,  even  the  history  oi 
the  gentlemen  to  whom  the  sisters  were  engaged.  AnditVaa 
almost  the  same  with  Mr.  Horton.  Mr.  Adderley  was  fonder  of 
prosing  about  himself  than  his  surroundings,  and  I  don't  think 
the  poor  young  man  ever  had  an  idea  in  his  rather  narrow  brain 
that  he  did  not  impart  to  us." 

"  You  see  I  am  not  of  so  communicative  a  disposition,"  said 
Mr.  Forde,  smiling;  "and when  there  has  been  one  great  sor- 
row in  a  life,  as  there  has  in  mine,  it  is  apt  to  assume  an  un- 
natural proportion  to  the  rest,  and  obscure  all  minor  details.  I 
had  a  great  loss  five  years  before  I  came  to  Hawleigh.  I  Jiava 
often  been  inclined  to  tell  you  all  about  it,  especially  of  late, 
since  I  have  seen  your  character  in  its  most  amiable  light.  But 
these  things  are  painfril  to  speak  of,  and  my  loss  was  a  very 
bitter  one." 

"  You  are  speaking  of  the  death  of  your  mother?  "  inquired 
EUzabeth,  trembling  a  little,  with  a  strange  sharp  dread. 

"No;  my  mother  died  fifteen  years  ago.  That  loss  waa 
bitter,  but  it  was  one  for  which  I  had  been  long  prepared.  The 
latter  loss  was  utterly  unexpected,  and  shattered  the  very  fabric 
of  my  life." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  about  it,"  said  Elizabeth,  her  face  bent 
over  the  water,  one  idle  hand  drawn  loosely  through  the  tide. 

"I  am  assured  that  you  are  kind  and  sympathetic,"  he  said, 
"  or  I  should  never  have  touched  upon  this  subject.  I  never  had 
a  sister,  and  perhaps  on  that  account  have  not  acquired  the 
habit  of  confession.  But — but — "  very  slowly,  and  with  a  curioua 
hesitation,  "  I  think  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you — about  her. 
About  AHce  Eraser,  the  woman  who  was  to  have  been  my  wife." 

The  face  bent  over  the  river  flushed  crimson,  the  little  whito 
hand  shivered  in  the  tide ;  but  Elizabeth  spoke  no  word. 

"When  I  went  to  India  with  my  regiment — it  was  just  after  the 
Mutiny — I  left  my  promised  wife  behind  me.  We  were  old  friends, 
had  been  playfellows  even,  though  the  little  Scottish  lassie  was 
seven  years  younger  than  I.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  Scotch 
parson,  a  mm  of  noble  mind  and  widest  reading,  and  the  best 
friend  and  •'■•.Hsellor  I  ever  had.  I  will  not  try  to  tell  you 
what  she  v^.t  >fce.  To  me  she  seemed  perfection,  pretty  enough 
t<>  eo  charm-.",  fu^  -"'viqhtness  and  vivacity,  yet  with  a  derth 


Strangers  and  Pilfjrimt.  43 

and  earnestness  in  her  nature,  that  made  me — her  senior  by  seven 
years — feel  that  here  was  a  staff  to  lean  upon  through  all  the 
iourney  of  life.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  revered  this  girl  ot' 
nineteen.  You  will  perhaps  think  that  she  was  self-opinionated, 
or  what  people  call  strong-minded  ;  but  there  was  never  a  more 
simple  unassuming  nature.  She  had  been  educated  by  her 
father,  and  on  a  wider  plan  than  the  common  scheme  of  a 
woman's  teaching.  Of  late  years  she  had  shared  his  studies, 
and  had  been  his  chosen  companion  in  every  hour  of  leisure. 
Of  her  goodness  to  the  people  round  about  her  I  cannot  trust 
myself  to  speak.  Her  memory  is  cherished  in  Lanorgie  as  the 
memory  of  a  saint.  I  doubt  if,  among  all  who  knew  her  well 
in  that  simple  flock,  there  is  one  who  could  speak  of  her  even 
now  without  t>ears." 

He  paused  for  some  few  minutes,  perhaps  lost  in  thought,  re- 
calling that  remote  Scottish  village,  and  the  sweet  girlish  face 
that  had  been  the  delight  of  his  life  six  years  ago.  The  oars 
dipped  gently  in  the  river,  the  boat  glided  on  with  imperceptible 
motion,  and  EUzabeth  sat  silent  with  her  face  still  bent  over  the 
water,  dragging  the  long  green  river-weeds  through  her  cold 
white  fingers. 

"  She  had  the  very  sHghtest  Scottish  accent — an  accent  that 
gave  a  plaintive  tone  to  her  voice,  like  music  in  a  minor  key. 
She  was  slender  and  fragile,  just  about  the  middle  height,  very 
fair  but  very  pale,  with  soft  brown  hair — the  sort  of  woman  a 
painter  would  choose  for  Imogen  or  Ophelia;  not  an  objective 
nature,  strongly  marked  with  its  own  individuality ;  subjective 
rather,  yet  strong  enough  to  resist  all  evil.  ^  bad  husband 
might  have  broken  her  heart,  but  he  would  never  have  sullied 
her  mind." 

He  stopped  again,  laid  down  his  sculls,  and  drew  the  boat 
under  the  reedy  bank.  EUzabeth  was  obliged  to  look  up  now. 
The  little  gray  straw  hat  with  its  convenient  shadow  hid  the 
change  in  her  face,  in  some  measure;  but  not  entirely,  for 
Mr.  Forde  observed  that  she  was  very  pale. 

*'  I  fear  you  are  tired,"  he  said,  "  or  that  my  dreary  talk  has 
wearied  you." 

"  No,  no ;  go  on.     She  must  have  been  very  good." 

"  She  had  less  of  humanity's  alloy  than  any  creature  I  ever 
knew,"  he  answered.  "  I  used  to  think  that  it  would  be  a 
privilege  for  any  man — the  best  evcci  —to  spend  his  life  in  her 
company.  There  was  one  subio".^.  I'liat  gave  her  great  pain,  anii 
that  was  the  fact  of  my  pro^oigica.  To  her  gentle  spirit  there 
was  something  horrible  in  j  .jOidier's  career.  She  could  not  ace 
the  nobler  side  of  my  calli..^.  And  I  loved  her  too  well  to  hoM 
by  anything  that  gave  her  pain.  I  promised  her  that  I  would 
sell  out  immediately  on  my  return  from  ^"r.«ign  service,  u-sd 
l:ept  my  wc»d  " 


44  '        Strangers  and  JBilgnnts. 

"  It  was  not  of  your  own  accord,  then,  that  you  left  the 
army  ?  "  asked  Elizabeth  absently,  as  if  only  half  her  brain 
were  following  his  words. 

"  No,  it  was  entirely  to  please  Alice.  I  sacrificed  my  own 
inclinations  in  the  matter.  That  conviction  which  has  become 
the  very  keystone  of  my  life  since  then  is  a  faith  that  grew  out 
of  my  great  sorrow.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  rest  of  the  stoiy  too 
briefly.  I  went  back  to  Lanorgie  a  free  man.  I  was  to  be  a 
farmer — a  country  gentleman  on  a  small  scale — anything  Alice 
pleased,  in  the  district  where  I  was  born.  My  sweet  girl  was  to 
live  for  ever  among  the  i^eople  she  loved.  Our  life  was  to  be 
Arcadian — a  pastoral  poem.  We  were  both  very  happy.  I  can 
safely  declare  that  there  was  not  left  in  my  mind  one  spark  of 
mankind's  common  desire  of  success  or  distinction.  The  long 
calm  years  stretched  themselves  out  before  me  in  sweet  event- 
less happiness." 

"  You  must  have  loved  her  very  much  ?  " 

"  If  you  could  measure  my  love  by  the  change  it  made  in 
me,  you  would  have  good  reason  to  say  so.  I  had  been  as  eager 
as  other  young  men  for  name,  position,  wealth,  jjleasure — per- 
haps even  more  eager.  But  Alice's  love  filled  my  mind  with  a 
great  content.  She  made  herself  the  sun  of  my  life.  I  desired 
nothing  beyond  the  peaceful  circle  of  the  home  that  she  and  I 
were  to  share  together.  "Well,  Miss  Luttrell," — this  with  a 
sudden  abruptness,  as  if  the  words  were  wrenched  from  him, — 
"  it  was  a  common  trouble  enough  when  it  came.  Our  wedding- 
day  was  fixed;  her  old  father,  every  one  was  happy.  The  last 
touch  had  been  43ut  to  our  new  home ;  a  house  I  had  built  for 
my  darling  upon  a  hill-side  facing  the  sea,  on  my  own  land. 
Everything  was  arranged — our  honeymoon  trip  southwards  to 
the  Cumberland  lakes  had  been  planned  between  us  on  the  map 
one  sweet  summer  evening.  We  parted  at  her  father's  door ; 
she  a  little  graver  than  usual — but  that  seemed  natural  on  the 
threshold  of  so  great  a  change.  When  I  went  to  the  manse 
next  morning,  they  told  me  that  she  was  not  quite  well — that 
her  father's  old  friend,  the  village  doctor,  recommended  her  to 
keep  her  room  for  a  day  or  two,  and  to  see  no  one.  She  had 
had  a  little  too  much  excitement  and  fatigue  lately.  I  re- 
23roached  myself  bitterly  for  our  long  walks  on  the  hills  and  by 
the  rugged  sea-shore  we  both  loved  so  well.  AH  she  wanted  was 
perfect  rest. 

"  They  kept  me  off  like  this  for  nearly  a  week ;  now  confessing 
reluctantly  that  she  was  not  quite  60  well ;  now  cheering  me 
with  the  assurance  that  she  was  better.  Then  one  morning  I 
heard  they  had  sent  to  Glasgow  for  a  physician.  After  that,  I 
insisted  upon  seeing  her. 

"  She  did  not  know  me.  I  stood  beside  her  bed,  and  the 
sweet  blue  eyes  looked  up  at  me,  but  she  was  unconscious.    Th« 


Strangers  and  FiJfjrims.  45 

physician  acknowledged  that  it  was  a  case  of  typhoid  fever. 
Tliere  was  very  little  ground  for  hope.  Yet  we  did  hope — 
blindly — to  the  last.  I  telegraphed  for  other  doctors.  But  we 
tould  not  save  her.  She  died  in  my  arms  at  daybreak  on  the 
day  that  was  to  have  seen  us  married. 

"  I  will  not  speak  of  the  dead  blank  that  followed  her  death— 
of  the  miserable  time  in  which  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
one  fact  of  my,  loss.  The  time  came  at  last  when  I  could  think  of 
her  more  calniy,  and  then  I^et  myself  to  consider  what  I  could 
do,  now  she  was  gone,  to  ^ove  that  I  had  loved  her — what 
tribute  I  could  render  to  my  dead.  It  was  then  I  thought  of 
entering  the  Church— of  devoting  myself,  so  far  as  in  me  lay,  to 
the  good  of  others — of  leading  such  a  Hfe  as  she  would  have 
blessed.  That  is  the  origin  of  all  I  have  done,  of  all  I  hope  to 
do.  That  is  the  end  of  my  story,  Miss  Luttrell.  I  trust  I  have 
not  tired  you  very  much.  I  thought  we  should  be  better  friends, 
if  you  knew  more  about  my  past." 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  she  jmswered  gently.  _"  I  have  sometimes 
fancied  there  must  be  something  in  your  life,  some  sorrowful 
memory:  not  that  there  has  ever  seemed  anything  gloomy  in 
your  character ;  but  you  are  so  much  more  in  earnest,  altogether 
BO  unlike  papa'o  other  curates." 

A  faint  blush  ht  up  the  pale  face  as  she  said  this,  remembering 
that  he  differed  most  widely  from  these  gentlemen  in  his  total 
inability  to  appreciate  herself. 

Yes,  she  had  fancied  there  was  some  bitter  memory  in  hia 

fast,  but  not  this.  His  confidence  had  strangely  shocked  her. 
t  was  inexpressibly  painful  to  her  to  discover  that  his  love — and 
60  profound,  a  love — had  all  been  lavished  upon  another  woman 
years  ago ;  that  were  she,  Elizabeth  Luttrell,  twice  as  lovely, 
twice  as  fascinating  as  she  was,  she  could  never  be  anything  to 
him.  He  had  chosen  his  type  of  womanly  perfection ;  he  had 
giveq  away  all  the  feeling,  all  the  passion  that  it  was  in  him  to 
give,  long  before  he  had  seen  her  face. 

"  Did  he  suppose  that — that  I  was  beginning  to  think  too 
much  of  him,"  she  said  to  herself,  blushing  indignantly,  "and 
tell  me  this  story  by  way  of  a  warning  ?  O,  no,  no !  his  manner 
was  too  straightforward  for  that.  He  thinks  that  I  am  good, 
thinks  that  I  am  able  to  sympathise  with  him,  to  pity  him,  to 
be  sorry  for  that  dead  girl.  And  I  am  not.  I  think  I  am 
jealous  of  her  in  her  grave." 

The  boat  glides  softly  on.  They  come  to  a  curve  in  the  river, 
and  to  Mr.  iielvin'a  party  returning  noisily. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  take  Miss  Ehzabeth  any  farther,  ar« 
you?"  cries  Frederick.  "  "We  are  going  back  to  tea.  How  slow 
you've  been !  We  went  as  far  as  the  Bells,  and  had  some 
»handy-gafiEl" 


46  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

• 

Mr.  Forde  turned  his  clumsy  bark,  and  all  tte  voyage  back 
was  noisy  with  the  talk  of  the  Melvtn  party  and  the  Oxonians' 
punt-load  of  vivacious  humanity.  They  were  all  in  holiday 
spirits,  laughing  on  the  faintest  provocation,  at  the  smallest 
imaginable  jokes.  Elizabeth  thought  it  the  most  dismal  busi- 
ness. AU  the  sunshine  was  taken  out  of  her  afternoon ;  Tabor 
seemed  a  sullen  stream  flowing  between  flat  weedy  banks.  But 
fihe  could  not  afi'ord  to  let  other  people  perceive  her  depression 
— Mr.  Forde  above  all.  She  was^obliged  to  affect  amusement 
at  those  infinitesimal  jokes,  those  stale  witticisms,  while  she  was 
thinking  all  the  time  of  that  thrice-blessed  woman  whom 
]\Ialcolm  Forde  had  loved,  and  who  had  timely  died  while  his 
passion  was  yet  in  its  first  bloom  and  freshness. 

"  I  daresay  if  she  had  gone  on  living  he  would  have  been  tired 
of  her  by  this  time,"  she  said  to  herself  in  a  cynical  mood, 
"  She  would  have  been  his  wife  of  ever  so  many  years'  standing, 
with  a  herd  of  small  children,  perhaps,  on  her  mind,  and  just  as 
commonplace  as  all  the  wives  one  knows — women  whose  in- 
tellects hardly  soar  above  nursemaids  and  pinafores.  How 
much  better  to  be  a  sacred  memory  of  his  life  than  a  prosaic 
fact  in  his  everyday  existence ! " 

After  this,  Ehzal^eth  felt  as  if  she  could  have  no  more 
pleasure  in  Malcolm  Forde's  society.  Her  selfish  soul  revolted 
against  the  idea  that  the  memory  of  his  dead  was  more  to  him 
than  any  favour  her  friendship  could  bestow,  that  she  waa 
divided  from  him  by  the  width  of  a  grave. 

"  I  wish  his  Alice  had  lived,  and  he  stayed  among  his  native 
hills  with  the  rest  of  the  Scotch  barbarians,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  1  don't  think  I've  been  qiaite  happy  since  I've  known  him. 
He  makes  one  feel  such  a  contemptible  creature,  with  has  grand 
ideas  of  what  a  woman  ought  to  be ;  and  then,  after  one  has 
tried  one's  hardest  to  be  good  against  one's  very  nature,  he 
coolly  informs  one  that  there  never  was  but  one  perfect  woman 
in  the  world,  and  that  she  lies  among  the  Scottish  hills  with  hir 
heart  buried  in  her  grave." 


CHAPTER  V. 

•  *  Well,  you  may,  you  must,  set  down  to  me 
Love  that  was  life,  life  that  was  Icve ; 
A  tenure  of  breath  at  your  lips'  decree, 

A  passion  to  stand  as  your  thoughts  approve, 
A  rapture  to  fall  where  your  foot  might  be." 

The  gipsy-tea  went  off"  brilliantly.    The  fuel-collecting  and  fir©- 
makinpr  and  kettle-boiUng  aff'orded  ampL?  sport  for  those  wilder 


Strangers  and  Pilgrimg.  4lt 

ajd  more  youthfnl  spirits  whose  capacity  for  flirtation  was  not 
yet  cxhansted.  Fred  JMelvin  belonged  to  that  harmless  class  of 
young  men  who,  although  in  the  dull  round  of  daily  life  but 
moderately  gifted,  shine  forth  with  unexpected  lustre  on  such 
an  occasion  as  this,  and  prove  themselves  what  their  friends  cail 
"an  acquisition."  He  fanned  life  and  light  into  a  hopelessly 
obstinate  fire,  with  his  straw  hat  for  an  extemporaneous  bellows ; 
he  showed  a  profound  knowledge  of  engineering  in  his  method 
of  placing  the  kettle  on  the  burning  logs,  so  as  not  immediately 
to  extinguish  the  flames  he  had  just  coaxed  into  being. 

"  I  don't  think  there  was  anything  so  very  wonderful  i^i 
Watt  inventing  the  steam-engine,"  said  Miss  Melvin,  standing 
by  and  admiring  her  brother's  dexterity ;  "  I  believe  Fred  would 
have  been  quite  as  likely  to  hit  upon  it,  if  it  hadn't  been  done 
before  his  time." 

They  drank  tea  in  little  scattered  groups:  the  elders  fore- 
gathering in  small  knots  to  talk  scandal  or  parish  business,  or 
to  indulge  in  mild  jeremiads  upon  the  frivolity  and  gener£c 
empty-headedness  of  the  rising  generation,  their  own  sons  ana 
daughters  and  nephews  and  nieces  not  excepted ;  the  juniors  to 
disport  themselves  after  their  kind  with  inexhatistible  nothings, 
vapid  utterances  which  filled  the  soul  of  Elizabeth  with  con- 
tempt. 

She  carried  her  teacup  away  to  a  lonely  little  bit  of  bank 
where  the  rushes  on  the  shelving  shore  grew  high  enough  to 
screen  her  from  the  rest  of  the  company,  and  sat  here  alone, 
absorbed  in  languid  contemplation  of  the  quiet  water  and  all  the 
glories  of  the  sunset  reflected  on  that  smooth  tide. 

Fred  Melvin,  seeing  the  white  dress  vanishing  beyond  the 
trees,  would  fain  have  gone  in  pursuit,  but  the  Luttrell  sistera 
prevented  him. 

"  Elizabeth  has  one  of  her  headaches,  I  daresay,"  said  Diana. 
"  It  would  be  no  use  going  after  her." 

"  One  of  her  tempers,  you  mean,  Di,"  exclaimed  Blanche  with 
sisterly  candour.  "  That's  always  the  way  with  Lizzie  if  every- 
thing doesn't  happen  exactlj^  as  she  wants  it  to  happen.  I  think 
she  would  like  a  world  made  to  order,  on  purpose  for  her." 

"  I  hope  we  haven't  done  anything  to  offend  her,"  cried  the 
anxious  Frederick,  whose  adoration  of  "the  beauty,"  as  chief 
goddess  of  his  soul,  had  never  suffered  diminution,  not  even 
when  he  amused  himself  by  offering  his  homage  at  lesser 
shrines.  "  Perhaps  she  didn'  t  like  our  going  off  in  the  boat 
without  her;  but  it  really  couldn't  have  held  so  much  as  a 
lap-dog  beyond  our  load." 

"  As  if  anything  you  could  do  would  offend  her ! "  exclaimed 
the  impetuous  Blanche,  always  ready  to  rebuke  Mr.  Melvin 's  vain 
passion.     "  Do  you  think  she  wanted  to  come  in  our  boat  ?   She 


48  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

would  have  given  lier  ears  for  that  tete-a-tete  row  with  Mr.  Fordo, 
caily  I  suppose  it  didn't  answer." 

"Blanche,  how  can  you  be  so  absurd!"  cried  Gertrude. 

"  If  you  don't  learn  to  behave  yourself  with  common  decency, 
we  really  must  leave  you  at  home  in  the  nursery  another  time," 
eaid  Diana. 

Mr.  Forde  was  happily  beyond  the  hearing  of  this  little 
explosion.  He  was  in  infinite  request  among  the  matrons  of  the 
party,  who  all  regarded  him  more  or  less  as  a  modern  St. 
Francis  de  Sales,  and  who  gave  him  not  a  little  trouble  by  their 
insistence  upon  communicating  small  facts  relating  to  their 
spiritual  progress ;  little  sentimental  gushes  of  feeling  which  he 
did  his  best  to  check,  his  ideas  of  his  duty  being  of  the  broadest 
and  grandest  character.  He  would  rather  have  had  the  conver- 
sion of  all  the  hardened  or  remorseful  felons  at  Portland  or 
Dartmoor  on  his  hands  than  those  gushing  matrons  and  senti- 
•aiental  spinsters,  who  could  not  travel  the  smallest  stage  of 
their  journey  towards  the  heavenly  Jerusalem  without  being 
propped  and  sustained  by  him. 

Nor  was  it  pleasant  to  listen  to  little  laments  about  the  Vicar. 
"  A  kind,  generous-minded  man,  Mr.  Forde,  and  very  good  to  the 
poor,  I  believe,  in  his  own  careless  way, — but  so  unspiritual ! 
We  hardly  knew  what  light  was  till  you  came  among  us."  And 
so  on,  and  so  on.  He  was  glad  to  slip  away  from  the  elder  tea- 
drinkers,  and  stroll  in  and  out  among  the  giant  beech  boles, 
with  the  gay  sound  of  youthful  laughter  and  happy  idle  talk 
filling  the  atmosphere  around  him. 

He  Hngered  to  say  a  few  words  to  Gertrude  Luttrell  and  her 
party,  and  then  looked  round  the  circle  curiously,  as  if  missing 
some  one. 

"  I  don't  see  your  sister,"  he  said  at  last,  "  Miss  Elizabeth." 

Miss  Luttrell  coloured  furiously. 

"  Lizzie  has  strayed  off  somewhere,"  she  said.  "  She  appears 
to  prefer  the  company  of  her  own  thoughts  to  our  society. 
Perhaps  had  she  known  you  would  express  so  much  anxiety 
about  her  she  would  have  stayed." 

"  I  am  not  pai-ticularly  anxious,"  replied  Mr.  Forde,  with  hia 
thoughtful  smile,  a  smile  which  lent  sudden  life  and  brightness 
to  the  dark  grave  face.  "  Only  I  have  it  on  my  conscience  that 
I  kept  your  sister  on  the  river  a  long  while  under  a  blazing  sun, 
and  I  feared  she  might  be  too  tired  to  enjoy  herself  with  the 
rest  of  you.     Can  I  take  her  a  cup  of  tea?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  would  if  I  were  you,"  cried  Fred  Melvin,  who 
»^as  in  a  picturesque  altiiude,  half  kneeling,  half  reclining  at 
the  feet  of  Blanche  Luttrell,  while  his  cousin,  Jane  llarrisou,  for 
whom  there  was  some  dim  notion  of  his  ripening  into  a  husband 
by-and-by,  sat  looking  nn  ■^'\\h.  an  aggrieved  air.     "  I  took  her 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  49 

a  second  cup  just  now,"  grumbled  Fred,  "  and  very  nearly  got 
my  nose  snapped  off  for  my  pains." 

Not  an  encouraging  statement ;  but  Mr.  Forde  was  not  afraid 
of  any  attacks  upon  his  nose  :  was  not  that  feature  in  a  manner 
sanctified  by  his  profession,  and  the  very  high  rate  at  which  the 
curate  race  is  held  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  London  P 
He  was  in  nowise  deterred  by  Mr.  Melvin's  plaint,  but  went  otf 
at  once  in  quest  of  Elizabeth. 

"  I  saddened  her  with  that  melancholy  story,"  he  thought. 
"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  told  her.  Yet  I  think  she  is  the 
kind  of  woman  a  man  might  dare  to  choose  out  of  all  other 
women  for  his  friend.  I  think  she  is  of  a  different  stuff  from 
the  rest  of  Hawleigh  womankind.  She  has  shown  herself 
superior  to  them  all  in  her  power  to  win  the  love  of  the  poor. 
And  we  could  never  be  friends  until  she  knew  my  story,  and 
knew  that  the  word  '  love '  has  been  blotted  from  the  book  of 
my  Ufe." 

It  was  a  new  fancy  of  Mr.  Forde's  this  desire  that  there 
should  really  be  friendship— something  more  than  the  every-day 
superficial  acquaintance  engendered  by  church  decoration  and 
croquet — between  himself  and  Elizabeth  Luttrell.  It  was  not 
to  be  in  the  slightest  degree  sentimental — the  popular  platonic 
idea.  The  Madame-Recamier-and-Chateanbriand  kind  of  thing 
had  never  entered  into  his  thoughts,  nor  did  he  mean  that  they 
should  see  any  more  of  each  other  than  they  had  done  hereto- 
fore ;  only  that  there  should  be  confidence  and  trust  between 
them  instead  of  strana-eness. 

He  found  her  presently  on  Her  lonely  bank  by  the  Tabor, 
seated  in  a  thoughtful  attitude,  and  casting  little  turfs  of  mosa 
and  lady's-slipper  idly  upon  the  tide.  She  had  arrayed  herself 
with  a  studied  simplicity  for  this  rustic  gathering;  perhaps  fully 
conscious  that  she  was  one  of  the  few  women  who  can  afford  to 
dispense  with  frillings  and  pufiings  and  ruchings— the  whola 
framework  of  beauty,  as  it  were.  She  wore  a  plain  white  muslin 
gown,  high  to  the  throat,  round  which  she  had  tied  a  dark-blua 
ribbon — the  true  Oxford  blue,  almost  black  against  the  ivory- 
white  of  her  neck.  The  long  dark  ribbon  made  a  rippling  line 
to  the  perfect  waist;  perfect  in  its  exquisite  proportion  to  the 
somewhat  full  and  stately  figure — the  waist  of  a  Juno  rather 
than  a  sylph.  Her  head  was  uncovered,  and  the  low  sunlight 
lit  up  all  the  bronze  tints  in  her  dark  brown  hair,  shone,  too,  in 
the  luminous  grey  eyes,  fixed  dreamily  upon  the  gleaming  water. 
Mr.  Forde  stood  for  a  few  moments  a  little  way  off",  admiring 
her — simply  as  he  would  have  admired  a  picture,  of  course. 

His  footsteps  made  a  faint  rustling  among  the  rushes  as  he 
came  nearer  to  her.  She  looked  round  suddenly,  and  all  her 
Ikce  Hushed  crimson  at  sight  of  him. 


60  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

That  blush  would  have  elevated  Fred  Melvin  to  the  seventh 
heaven ;  but  Malcolm  Forde  was  no  coxcomb,  and  did  not  attri- 
bute the  heightened  tint  to  any  magical  power  of  his  own.  She 
was  nervous,  perhaps,  and  he  had  startled  her  by  his  sudden 
ajjproach ;  or  she  might  be  indeed,  as  her  friends  had  suggested, 
a  httle  out  of  temper,  and  annoyed  at  being  tracked  to  her 
lair. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me  for  disturbing  your  solitary  musings, 
Miss  Elizabeth,"  he  said,  very  much  detesting  the  ceremonial 
Miss ;  "  but  I  really  don't  think  you're  enjoying  your  father's 
picnic  quite  so  much  as  you  ought,  for  your  own  satisfaction 
and  that  of  your  friends  " 

"  I  hate  picnics,"  she  an s«Fered  peevishly ;  "  and  if  papa  gives 
one  next  year,  I'U  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I'm  sure  I 
wish  I'd  stayed  in  Hawleigh  and  gone  to  see  my  poor  people. 
I  should  have  been  much  happier  sitting  by  Mrs.  Jones's  wash- 
tub,  or  reading  to  Mrs.  Brown  while  she  mended  her  husband's 
Btockings." 

"  If  you  speak  like  that,  I  shall  think  I  spoiled  your  pleasure 
by  that  egotistical  talk  in  the  boat." 

She  only  shook  her  head  and  looked  away  from  him  at  a  dis- 
tant curve  of  the  river.  There  was  an  awkward  sensation  of 
eemi-strangulation  in  her  throat.  For  her  very  life  she  could 
not  have  answered  him.  Yes,  it  was  a  bitter  disapj^ointment 
to  discover  that  he  had  flung  away  his  heart  before  he  came  to 
Hawleigh  ;  that  he  was  a  kind  of  widower,  and  pledged  never  to 
tiarry  again. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  that  I  told  you  that  story.  Of  course  it  was 
JO  fitting  time.  I  was  a  brute  not  to  have  thought  of  that ; 
but  we  so  rarely  have  time  for  a  confidential  talk,  and  I  have 
been  so  much  interested  in  your  work  lately,  so  much  pleased  by 
your  hearty  manner  of  taking  up  a  duty  which  I  know  did  at 
first  seem  uncongenial  to  you,  and  I  was  anxious  that  we  should 
be  friends.  Pray  do  not  let  the  gloom  of  my  past  life  weigh 
upon  your  spirits  even  for  an  hour.  It  was  a  most  ill-advised 
confession.     Try  to  forget  that  it  was  ever  made." 

Silence  still,  and  the  head  turned  obstinately  towards  tho 
river.  Was  it  temper  ?  or  compassion  for  another's  woes  more 
profound  than  he  had  dreamed  of  ? 

"  Say,  at  least,  that  you  forgive  me  for  having  depressed 
you." 

Still  no  answer  in  words,  but  a  hand  stretched  out  towards 
his,  a  hand  chiU  as  death. 

"  Let  me  take  you  back  to  your  friends,"  he  said,  alarmed  by 
the  cold  touch  of  that  little  hand,  which  he  clasped  for  a  moment 
with  a  friendly  pressure  and  then  let  fall.  "  I  shall  not  forgive 
niyaelf  till  I  see  you  haPDv  with  the  others." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  51 

She  rose  slowly  and  took  the  arm  which  he  offered  her.  That 
choking  sensation  had  been  conquered  by  this  time,  and  she 
was  able  to  answer  him  quite  calmly. 

"  Pray  don't  distress  yourself  about  me,"  she  said  ;  "  I  am 
very  glad  that  you  told  me  your  story,  that  you  think  me  worthy 
of  your  confidence." 

He  took  her  back  to  the  cii-cle  under  the  Beeches.  Cups  and 
saucers  were  being  gathered  up,  the  bustle  of  preparation  for 
departure  had  begun.  Wagonette,  omnibus,  and  dogcart  stood 
ready  for  the  homeward  journey,  and  the  usual  discussions  and 
disputes  as  to  the  mode  and  manner  of  return  were  going  on  : 
elderly  spinsters  languishing  to  travel  on  the  roof  of  the  omni- 
bus, and  prote.sting  their  aliection  for  the  perfume  of  cigars  ; 
fastish  young  ladies  pleading  for  the  same  privilege  ;  and  all  tlie 
male  kind  thinly  disguising  the  leaven  of  selfishness  that  waj 
in  them,  and  the  desire  to  appropriate  the  roof  to  their  own 
accommodation,  by  an  affected  solicitude  as  to  the  hazard  ol 
cold-catching. 

«' We  ought  to  have  had  a  dance,"  grumbled  Blanche;  "it 
would  have  been  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  bring  a  couple 
of  men  with  a  harp  and  a  fiddle,  but  I  suppose  it  would  have 
been  considered  unclerical.  It  would  have  been  so  nice.  We 
should  have  fancied  ourselves  fairies  tripping  lightly  under  the 
greenwood  tree.  I  declare  it  seems  quite  a  shame  to  go  home 
so  early — ^just  when  the  air  is  pleasantest,  and  all  the  stars  are 
beginning  to  peep  out  of  their  nests  in  the  sky — as  if  we  were  a 
children's  tea-party." 

The  fiat,  however,  had  gone  forth,  the  vehicles  were  ready, 
the  fogy-ish  element  in  the  pai-ty  eager  to  depai-t  before  dewa 
began  to  fall,  and  toads,  bats,  owls,  spiders,  and  other  rustic 
horrors  to  pervade  the  scene ;  the  juvenile  population  loth  to 
go,  yet  eager  for  the  excitement  of  the  return  journey,  with  all 
its  opportunities  for  unlimited  flirtation. 

Fred  Melvin  was  the  proud  proprietor  of  the  dogcart,  a  con- 
veyance usually  apijroprialed  to  the  uses  of  his  father — the 
family  carriage,  in  short — which,  if  it  had  only  possessed  one  of 
those  removable  Amencan-oven  tops  pojjular  in  the  rural  dis- 
tricts would  liave  even  done  duty  for  a  brougham.  Urged 
thereto  by  his  sister,  and  with  considerable  reluctan..;<;,  the 
young  sohcitor  entreated  Mr.  Forde,  who  had  come  on  the  box 
of  the  omnibus,  to  accept  a  seat  in  his  chariot — a  variety 
in  the  mode  of  return  being  esteemed  a  privilege  by  the 
picnickers. 

"  Mr.  Forde  won't  want  to  go  back  on  the  omnibus,  I  dare- 
say, Fred,"  argued  Laura  Melvin.  "  You  might  as  well  offer 
him  a  seat  in  the  dogcart." 

To  which  suggestion  Frederick  growled  that  he  wanted  no 


52  Strangers  c^  Pilgrims. 

parsons,  and  that  he  was  going   to   ask   one   of  the  Liittrell 
girls. 

"  You  can  ask  one  of  the  Miss  Luttrells,  too,  Fred.  There'll 
only  be  you  and  me  and  Mr.  Forde,  Jenny's  going  home 
inside  the  omnibus.  She  has  a  touch  of  her  neuralgia  ;  and  I 
don't  wonder,  poor  girl,  you've  been  flirting  so  shamefully  with 
Blanche  Luttrell.  I  wonder  how  a  girl  hardly  out  of  pinafores 
can  go  on  so." 

So  Fred  went  away  to  offer  the  vacant  seats ;  first  to  Mr. 
Ford»,  with  reluctant  politeness. 

"You  don't  like  too  much  smoke,  I  daresay,  and  those 
fellows  on  the  'bus  will  be  smoking  like  so  many  factory 
chimneys  every  inch  of  the  way.  You'd  better  have  your  quiet 
cigar  in  my  trap." 

"  You're  very  good.  I  don't  like  bad  tobacco,  certainly ;  and 
the  odours  I  enjoyed  coming  were  not  by  any  means  the 
perfumes  of  Arabia.  But  are  you  sure  I  shall  not  be  in 
\he  way  ?  " 

"  0,  you  won't  be  in  the  way.  I  am  going  to  ask  Lizzie 
Luttrell,  and  that'll  make  up  the  four." 

Mr.  Fordo  winced  at  this  familiar  mention  of  the  damsel  in 
whom  he  had  permitted  himself  to  become  interested;  but  that 
kind  of  familiarity  is  a  natural  attribute  of  brothers  in  their 
intercourse  with  their  sisters'  friends.  "A  different  race,  these 
provincial  brothers,  from  the  rest  of  mankind,"  Mr.  Forde 
thought. 

"  I'm  going  to  ask  her,"  repeated  Frederick,  as  he  tightened 
the  chestnut  mare's  kicking-strap,  "  but  I  don't  suppose  she'll 
come,  unless  her  temper's  undergone  some  improvement  since  I 
took  her  that  cup  of  tea." 

Elizabeth  Luttrell  drew  nigh  at  this  moment,  in  grave  con- 
verse with  a  little  silver-headed  gentleman,  the  ancient  banker 
of  Hawleigh. 

To  Mr.  Melvin's  surprise,  she  accepted  his  offer  with  extreme 
graciousness. 

"  I  hke  a  dogcart  above  all  things,"  she  said,  "  especially  if  I 
may  sit  behind.  I  do  so  like  the  excitement  of  the  sensation 
that  one  will  be  jerked  off  if  the  horse  shies." 

But  against  this  Fred  protested  vehemently. 

"You  must  sit  next  the  driver,"  he  said;  "La^ara  din  sit 
behind  with  Mr.  Forde.  Not  that  Bess  ever  shies,  but  you  must 
have  the  post  of  honour." 

"  Then  I'll  go  home  in  the  omnibus,"  said  Lizzie;  "I  know 
riding  behind  always  makes  Laura  nervouB." 

Miss  Melvin,  pressed  hard  upon  this  point,  acknowledged  that 
the  jerky  sensation  which  was  pleasant  to  Elizi..beth's  bolder 
spirit  was  eminently  appalling  to  herself.     So  Elizabeth  had 


Strangers  and  Pilijrims.  53 

her  own  wa}',  and  occupied  the  back  seat  of  the  dogcart,  witt 
Mr.  Forde  by  her  side. 

The  journey  back  to  Hawleigh  was  a  ten-mile  drive  through 
west-country  lanes,  bordered  by  steep  banks  and  tall  tangled 
hedges  that  shut  out  the  landscape,  except  for  those  privileged 
travellers  on  the  roof  of  the  omnibus.  Only  now  and  then  did 
the  dogcart  emerge  from  the  shadow  of  hawthorn  and  wood- 
bine, wild  rose  and  wild  apple,  into  the  moonlit  open  country  ; 
but  the  odour  of  those  leafy  lanes  was  sweet,  and  beyond 
them,  far  away  in  the  soft  silver  light,  spread  fair  hill-sides 
and  wooded  slopes,  and  brief  flashes  of  the  winding  river. 

It  only  lasted  an  hour  and  a  quarter,  that  homeward 
journey,  the  dogcart  keeping  well  ahead  of  the  heavier  vehicles, 
and  Bess  the  mare  performing  the  distance  in  so  superior  a 
manner  as  almost  to  justify  that  pride  in  her  which  was  one  of 
the  chief  articles  of  faith  in  the  household  code  of  the  Melvins. 
Elizabeth  would  have  thought  better  of  the  animal  had  she 
loitered  a  little  on  the  way.  Not  often  could  she  enjoy  a 
moonlight  tete-a-tete  with  Mr.  Forde — for  it  mattered  little  that 
Fred  interjected  his  trivial  little  remarks  every  now  and  then 
across  Miss  Luttrell's  shoulder;  not  often  had  he  unbent  to  her 
as  he  unbent  to-night,  talking  to  her  as  if  she  were  verily  in 
some  measure  a  ])art  of  his  inner  life,  and  not  a  mere  accident 
in  the  outer  world  around  him.  That  confession  of  his  past 
soiTows  seemed  really  to  have  brought  them  a  little  closer  to- 
gether, and  Elizabeth  began  to  think  there  might  indeed  be 
such  a  thing  as  friendship  between  them ;  friendship  that 
would  brighten  the  dull  round  of  district-visiting,  sweeten  all 
her  hfe,  and  yet  leave  her  free  to  dream  her  favourite  day-dream 
of  a  wealthy  marriage  in  the  days  to  come ;  a  splendid  position 
won  suddenly  by  her  beauty ;  a  swift  and  easy  translation  to  a 
land  flowing  with  silks  and  laces  and  all  kinds  of  Parisian  mil- 
linery; a  little  heaven  here  below  in  the  way  of  opera-boxes 
and  races  and  flower-shows  and  moruLiig  concerts;  while  Mr. 
Forde  remained  at  liberty  to  fulfil  that  scheme  of  a  monkish 
life  which  he  had  in  his  own  quiet  manner  avowed  to  his  more 
familiar  friends  of  the  district-visiting  class. 

"  And  perhaps  some  day,  after  I  am  married,  he  will  really 
go  to  the  South-Sea  Islands,  or  the  centre  of  Africa,  as  a  mis- 
sionary," she  thought,  with  a  little  regretful  sigh  ;  "  and  years 
afterwards,  when  I  am  middle-aged  and  his  hair  is  growing  gray, 
he  will  come  back  to  England  as  Bishop  of  Tongataboo,  or  some 
fearful  place,  and  I  shall  hear  him  preach  a  charity  sermon  at  a 
fashionable  London  church." 

It  seemed  hardly  worth  her  while  to  be  sorry  about  so  remote  a 
contingency;  but  she  could  not  help  feeling  a  pang  at  the 
thought  that  this  part  of  her  vision  was  the  most  likely  to  be 


64  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

realised;  that  whether  the  hypothetical  baronet,  with  thirt;^ 
thousand  a  year,  did  or  did  not  appear  upon  the  narrow  sceiia 
of  her  life,  Malcolm  Forde  would  spi-ead  his  pinions  and  soai 
away  to  a  wider  field  than  this  small  provincial  town. 

The  dogcart  arrived  at  the  gate  of  Hawleigh  Vicarage  quite 
half  an  hour  in  advance  of  the  other  vehicles.  It  was  past  ten 
o'clock,  and  rare  lights  burned  dimly  in  the  uf)per  casements  o. 
the  houses  that  wei-e  scattered  here  and  there  along  the  high- 
road on  this  side  of  the  town,  the  more  exclusive  and  suburban 
quarter,  adorned  by  the  trim  gotliic  lodges  of  the  villas  that 
half  aspired  to  be  country  seats.  The  vicarage  servants — Ann 
the  sometime  nurse  and  general  factotum,  Susan  the  coolc, 
Rebecca  the  housemaid,  and  Jakes,  the  man-of-all-work — were 
clustered  at  the  gate,  waiting  to  witness  the  return  of  the  pic- 
nickers, as  more  sophisticated  domestics  might  stand  at  gaze  to 
Bee  all  the  drags  and  wagonettes  and  hansom  cabs  of  the 
famous  Derby  pilgrimage  file  slowly  past  Clapham-common. 

"You'll  come  in,  won't  you,  Laura?"  said  Elizabeth,  who 
did  not  wish  her  evening  to  close  abruptly  with  brief  farewells 
at  the  gate.  "  Jakes  can  take  care  of  your  horse,  Mr.  Melvin , 
You'll  wait  for  papa,  won't  you  Mr.  Forde,  and  to  say  good- 
night to  every  one  P  " 

"  If  you  are  sure  that  you  are  not  tired,  and  would  be  glad  to 
get  rid  of  us  and  go  in  and  rest,"  said  Mr.  Forde  doubtfully. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  tired.  I  feel  more  in  the  humour  to 
begin  a  picnic  than  I  did  at  one  o'clock  to-day.  Why,  in 
London  fashionable  people  are  only  just  beginning  to  go  out  to 
parties  !  We  seem  to  cut  off"  the  best  end  of  our  lives  in  the 
country  with  our  stupid  humdrum  habits.  Don't  you  think  the 
night  is  best,  Mr.  Forde  ?  " 

"  For  study,  I  admit." 

"  0,  for  pleasure,  for  everything ! "  cried  Elizabeth  impatiently. 
"  I  feel  another  creature  at  night,  out  of  doors,  in  summer 
moonlight  like  this.  There  is  a  kind  of  intoxication  :  one's  soul 
seems  to  soar  away  into  clearer  air,  into  dreamland.  What 
would  dancing  be  like  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  or  at 
three  on  a  sultry  afternoon?  Why,  it  would  seem  perfect 
lunacy  !  But  at  night,  with  o^sen  windows,  and  the  moonlight 
outside,  and  the  scent  of  the  flowers  blowing  in  from  the  garden, 
it  is  simply  rapture,  because  we  are  not  quite  the  same  people, 
you  see,  towards  midnight.  For  my  own  part,  on  a  summer 
evening  I  always  feel  as  if  I  had  wings."  She  said  this  in  a 
rapid  excited  tone,  as  if  this  particular  moonlight  had  indeed 
produced  an  abnormal  effect  upon  her  spirits. 

They  had  all  strolled  into  the  garden,  Frederick  having  reluc- 
tantly committed  the  mare  to  the  man-of-all-work.  Mr.  Forde 
was  walking  bc^^weeu  the  two  young  ladies,  Miss  Melvin  feeling 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  55 

that  it  was  mere  foolishness  to  hope  for  any  attention  from  a 
curate  while  Elizabeth  ran  on  in  that  wild  and  almost  dis- 
reputable way  of  hers,  not  in  the  least  like  a  well-brought-up 
young  lady.  But  then  it  was  a  well-known  fact  that  the 
Luttrell  girls  had  received  only  a  desultory  training,  not  the 
regular  old-established  boarding-school  grinding:  but  sometimes 
a  morning  governess,  and  sometimes  an  interregnum  of  inter- 
mittent instruction  from  their  father;  sometimes  masters  for 
music  and  drawing,  sometimes  nothing  at  all.  They  were  all 
clever  girls,  of  course,  said  the  genteel  matrons  of  Hawleigh,  or 
they  could  hardly  have  grown  up  as  well  as  they  had  ;  but  they 
had  not  enjoyed  the  advantages  of  the  orthodox  discipline  for 
the  youthful  mind,  and  the  consequences  of  this  irregular 
education  cropped  up  occasionally.  The  girls  had  read  ahnost 
what  they  liked,  and  had  stronger  opinions  than  were  becoming 
in  a  vicar's  daughters. 

To  Laura  Mc'lvin's  gratified  surprise,  Mr.  Forde  did  not  take 
any  notice  of  Ehzabeth's  tirade  about  moonlight,  but  turned  to 
her,  Laura,  and  began  to  question  her  politely  respecting  her 
enjoyment  of  the  day,  while  Fred,  eager  to  snatch  his  oppor- 
tunity, flew  to  Elizabeth. 

"  Didn't  Bess  do  the  ten  miles  well?  "  he  asked  by  way  of  a 
lively  beginning,  quite  prepared  to  have  his  advances  ill  received. 

But  Elizabeth  was  still  under  the  intoxication  of  the  moon- 
light. She  was  a  person  of  singularly  variable  spirits,  and  the 
sullen  gloom  that  had  come  upon  her  after  that  interview  in  the 
boat  had  now  changed  to  a  reckless  vivacity. 

"The  drive  was  delightful,"  she  said.  "I  should  like  U 
scamper  all  over  Devonshire  and  Cornwall  in  such  a  dogcart, 
with  just  such  a  horse,  stopping  at  all  manner  of  wild  places,  and 
being  benighted,  and  camping  on  the  moors.  What  a  mistake 
it  is  to  live  all  one's  life  shut  up  between  four  walls,  in  the  same 
place,  with  no  more  variety  from  year's  end  to  year's  end  than  a 
fortnight  in  seaside  lodgings  !  0,  how  I  wish  Providence  had 
made  me  a  gipsy,  or  a  Bedouin  Arab ! 

"  Awfully  jolly,  I  should  think,  the  Bedouins,"  replied  Fred 
doubtfully.  "They  tumble,  don't  they?  I  remember  seeing 
some  Bedouin  tumblers  at  Vauxball  when  I  was  a  youngster, 
and  was  up  in  London  with  the  paternal  party.  But  those  were 
all  men  and  boys.  I  don't  think  the  women  tumbled ;  and  their 
lives  must  have  been  uncommonly  dull,  shut  up  somewhere 
in  London  lodgings,  while  their  husbands  and  brothers  were 
performing,  not  being  able  to  speak  English,  you  know,  poor 
creatures,  or  anything." 

"  0  you  stupid  Fred !  "  cried  Elizabeth,  who  sometimes  deigned 
to  address  the  young  man  in  this  familiar  way.  "  As  if  I  meant 
performing  Araba !     I  should  like  to  be  the  daughter  of  som© 


56  Strangers  and  Pilgrlmt. 

Arab  chief  in  the  great  desert,  with  my  own  darling  horse  to  carry 
me  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  and  only  a  tent  to  live  in,  and  locusta 
and  wild  honey  for  my  dinner,  like  John  the  Baptist.  I  should 
like  to  be  one  of  those  nice  brown-faced  girls  who  go  about  the 
country  with  a  van-load  of  mats  and  brooms.  There  seema 
Boniething  respectable  in  brooms.  They  would  hardly  send  me 
to  prison  as  a  rogue  and  vagabond ;  and  0,  how  nice  it  must  be 
never  to  stay  very  long  in  the  same  place ! " 

*'  And  to  have  no  friends  and  no  home,  and  no  books  or  piano, 
and  to  be  of  no  particular  use  in  the  world ;  only  always  toiling 
more  or  less  hopelessly  for  one's  daily  bread :  and  to  die  some 
day  by  the  roadside,  of  hard  work  and  exposure  to  all  kinds  of 
weather,"  continued  Mr.  Forde,  who  had  soon  exhausted  his 
little  stock  of  civihties  to  Miss  Melvin,  and  turned  to  listen  to 
Elizabeth's  random  talk.  "  I'm  afraid  you  must  be  very  tired 
of  us  all,  Miss  Luttrell,  when  your  soul  yearns  for  the  broom- 
girl  life." 

"  Not  so  tired  as  you  confess  yourself  to  be  of  us  when  ;you 
contemplate  convertmg  the  heathen,"  answered  the  girl,  turning 
her  back  upon  the  hapless  Frederick. 

"  It  is  not  because  I  am  tired  of  you  that  I  think  sometimea 
of  a  broader  field  and  harder  work,"  he  answered  gravely,  "  but 
for  quite  a  difierent  reason — because  I  sometimes  find  my  life  here 
too  easy,  too  pleasaut ;  an  enervating  hfe,  in  short.  It  is  not 
always  wise  for  a  man  to  trust  himself  to  be  happy." 

"  I  thought  you  had  done  with  happiness,  after — what  you 
told  me  this  afternoon,"  said  Elizabeth,  almost  bitterly. 

Her  speech  shocked  him  a  little.  He  answered  it  in  his 
coldest  tones. 

"  With  one  kind  of  happiness,  yes,  and  that  perhaps  the  only 
perfect  happiness  in  this  world — companionship  with  a  perfect 
woman." 

"  A  very  good  way  of  reminding  me  that  I'm  an  imperfect 
one,"  thought  Elizabeth,  not  unconscious  of  deserving  the  im- 
plied rebuke. 

They  walked  slowly  round  the  garden  in  the  moonlight,  side 
by  side,  but  somewhat  silent  after  this,  leaving  Frederick  to 
straggle  in  their  rear  with  his  sister,  an  ignominious  mode  of 
/reatment  which  he  inwardly  resented.  Nor  was  he  sorry  when 
the  omnibus  and  wagonette  drove  up  to  the  gate  to  release  him 
from  this  humiliating  position.  He  felt  himself  rehabilitated  in 
his  own  self-esteem  when  Blanche,  who  really  came  next_  to 
Elizabeth  in  the  scale  of  prettiness,  skipped  gaily  up  to  bim, 
telling  him  that  she  had  had  the  dullest  imaginable  drive  inside 
the  omnibus,  and  that  she  had  been  dreadfully  jealous  of  Lizzie, 
who  of  course  had  been  having  capital  fun  in  the  doo;cart. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  Forde  is  particularly  good  fun,"  Mr 


Slranyers  and  Pilgrims.  57 

Melvia  replied  with  a  sulky  air.  "Tour  sister  had  /tn;i  all  to 
herself.  There  was  no  getting  in  a  word  edgeways.  I  think 
when  a  man  as  good  as  gives  out  from  the  pulpit  that  he  never 
means  to  marry,  he  ought  to  give  up  flirting  into  the  bargain." 

"  0,  Fred,  how  shameful  of  you  to  say  such  a  thing !  Aa 
if  Mr.  Forde  ever  flirted !  " 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  he's  doing  now,"  grim? bled  Fred. 
"  If  that  isn't  the  real  thing,  it's  an  uncommonly  good  imitation." 

Elizabeth  had  taken  up  her  favourite  position  by  the  sun- 
dial, and  Malcolm  Forde  was  standing  by  her,  talking  earn- 
estly, or  at  least  with  an  appearance  of  earnestness -,  and  it  is 
one  of  the  misfortunes  of  youth  that  two  persons  of  opposite 
sex  cannot  converse  for  ten  minutes  with  any  show^  of  interest 
without  raising  suspicions  of  flirtation  in  the  minds  of  the 
beholders. 

"  Doesn't  it  seem  absurd,"  exclaimed  the  aggrieved  Frederick, 
"  after  all  Elizabeth  has  said  about  never  marrying  a  clergy- 


man 


'>■ 


"  She  is  not  obliged  to  marry  Mr.  Forde  because  she  talks  to 
him  for  five  minutes,  is  she,  you  stupid  creature  ?"  cried  Blanche, 
disapproving  this  appearance  of  concern  in  her  admirer — 
eligible  young  men  were  so  rare  at  Hawleigh. 

And  now,  after  some  consumption  of  claret-cup  or  sherry- 
and-soda  among  the  elders  in  the  low  candle-lit  drawing-room, 
and  a  straggling  flirtation  among  the  juniors  here  and  there 
about  the  garden,  there  came  a  general  good-night,  and  Mr. 
Luttrell's  guests  dispersed,  in  carriages  or  on  foot,  to  that 
gentleman's  supreme  contentment.  This  kind  of  thing  was 
one  of  the  penalties  that  went  along  with  a  flock  of  daughters. 

"  Thank  heaven,  that's  over,"  he  said  ^vith  a  faint  groan,  and 
in  a  tone  of  voice  strangely  diflferent  from  the  friendly  warmth 
of  his  last  farewell.  "And  now  mind,  I  am  not  to  be  bothered 
about  any  more  party-giving  on  this  side  of  Christmas." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shouldn't  care  if  there  were  never  to  he  an- 
other party  on  the  face  of  the  earth,"  said  Elizabeth  drea'-'Jy. 
Whereby  it  might  be  supposed  that,  so  far  as  the  prettiest  Miss 
Luttrell  was  concerned,  the  day's  festivities  had  been  a  failure. 

Blanche  questioned  her  by-and-by  up  in  their  tower  chamber 
— the  ancient  octagon  room,  with  its  deep-set  casements  and 
litter  of  girUsh  trifles,  its  bird-cages  and  bookshelves,  and  glove- 
boxes  and  scent-bottles — questioned  her  closely,  but  at  the 
outset  could  extort  very  little  from  those  firm  proud  lips. 

"  You  know  you  were  glad  to  have  that  nde  home  with 
him,*  said  the  girl  persistently.  "You  know  you  quarrelled 
with  him  in  the  boat,  and  were  miserable  afterwards.  You 
k  now  you  are  fond  of  him,  Lizzie.  What's  the  good  of  trying 
to  hide  it  from  me  ?  " 


68  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

"  Fond  of  him  !  "  cried  Elizabeth  passionately.  "Fond  of  a 
man  who  scarcely  ever  says  a  civil  word  to  me !  Fond  of  a 
man  who,  if  he  ever  wei'e  to  care  for  me — and  he  never  will — 
would  want  to  make  me  a  district-visitor  or  a  female  mission- 
ary !     You  ought  to  know  me  better,  Blanche." 

'*  I  know  you  are  fond  of  him,"  the  girl  repeated  resolutely. 
"  Wliy,  you've  changed  your  very  nature  for  his  sake !  As  if 
we  didn't  all  of  us  know  the  influenoe  that  has  made  you  take 
up  Gertrude's  work !" 

Elizabeth  burst  out  laughing. 

"Perhaps  I  wanted  to  take  the  shine  out  of  Gertrude's 
Bupernal  virtues,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps  I  wanted  to  show  him 
that  I  was  just  as  v/ell  able  to  do  that  kind  of  a  thing  as  his 
Hawleigh  saints,  v  '^o  call  it  their  vocation — that  I  was  able  to 
make  the  poor  people  love  me,  which  very  few  of  his  saints  can 
manage." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Lizzie,  I'm  afraid  you're  very  wicked," 
exclaimed  Blanche,  staring  at  her  sister  with  an  awed  look. 

Elizabeth  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  low  French  bed,  her 
brown  hair  falling  round  her  like  a  sombre  drapery,  her  eyea 
fixed  with  a  dreamy  look,  a  half-mischievous,  half-triumphant 
emile  upon  hfv  lips. 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  right,"  she  said  with  a  sudden  burst  of 
candour.  "  I  feel  intensely  wicked  at  this  moment.  Can  you 
guess  what  I  should  like  to  do,  Blanche  ?  " 

"  Not  I.     You  are  the  most  uni'athomable  girl  in  creation." 

"  r  should  like  to  bring  that  man  to  my  feet,  to  make  him  as 
deej^ly  in  love  with  me  as — as  ever  any  miserable  slavish 
woman  was  with  a  man  who  did  not  love  her,  and  then  spurn 
him ;  fool  him  to  the  top  of  his  bent,  Blanche ;  and  when  I 
had  become  the  very  apple  of  his  eye  —  perhaps  while  he 
was  deliberating  in  his  slow  dull  soul  as  to  whether  he  should 
make  an  election  between  me  and  the  conversion  of  the  South- 
Sea  Islanders — astonish  him  some  fine  morning  by  announcing 
ftiy  engagement  with  somebody  a  little  better  worth  marrying. 
He  would  have  his  South-Sea  Islanders  left  to  console  him." 

She  flung  the  cloud  of  hair  back  from  her  face  impatiently, 
with  a  bitter  little  laugh  and  a  downward  glance  of  the  dark 
eyes,  as  if  she  did  indeed  see  Malcolm  Forde  at  her  feei^  and 
were  scorning  him. 

Blanche  gazed  at  her  \vith  unmitigated  horror. 

"  Goodness  gracious,  Lizzie !  What  can  put  such  dreadful 
ideas  into  your  head?  _-Whai  hos  M.alcolm  Forde  done  to 
make  you  so  savage  ?  " 

"  What  has  he  done?  O,  nothing,  I  suppose,"  half  hysteri- 
cally. "  But  I  should  like  to  punish  him  for  all  he  has  mado 
me  suffer  to-day." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims,  69 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Wlicn  God  smote  His  hands  together,  and  struck  out  thy  soul  ns  a  sp.irk 

Into  the  organized  gloiy  of  things,  from  deeps  of  the  dark, — 

Say,  didst  thou  shine,  didst  thou  burn,  didst  thou  honour  the  power  ii? 

the  form, 
Ab  the  star  does  at  night,  or  the  fire-fly,  or  even  the  little  ground-wcrm  i. 
"  I  have  sinned,"  she  said, 
"  For  my  seed- light  shed 
Hag  smouldered  away  from  His  first  decrees. 
The  cypress  praiseth  the  fire-fly,  the  ground-leaf  praiseth  the  worm  ; 
I  am  viler  than  these." 

What  had  Malcolm  Forde  done?  The  question  was  one 
which  that  gentleman  demanded  of  himself  not  unfrequently 
during  the  next  few  weeks.  Was  it  wise  or  foolish  to  have 
bared  this  old  wound  before  the  pitying,  or  unpitying,  eyes  of 
Elizabeth  Luttrell;  to  have  made  this  appeal  for  womanly 
sympathy,  he  who  was  by  nature  so  reticent,  who  had  kept  his 
griefs  so  sternly  locked  within  his  own  breast  until  now  ?  Was 
it  wise  or  foolish  ?  Was  he  right  in  deeming  her  nobler  than 
the  common  herd  of  women,  a  soul  with  whom  it  might 
be  sweet  to  hold  friendship's  calm  communion,  a  woman 
whom  he  dared  cultivate  as  his  friend  ?  He  was  not  even  yet 
fully  resolved  upon  this  point ;  but  of  possible  peril  to  himself 
in  any  such  association  he  had  never  dreamed.  Long  ago  he 
had  told  himself  that  his  heart  was  buried  in  Alice  Eraser's 
grave,  laid  at  rest  for  ever  in  the  hill-side  burial  ground  beneath 
the  mountains  that  shelter  Lanorgie;  long  ago  he  had  solemnly 
devoted  all  the  power  of  his  intellect,  all  the  vigour  of  his  man- 
hood, to  the  pursuit  of  a  grander  aim  than  that  mere  earthly 
happiness  for  which  the  majority  of  mankind  searches.  From 
that  burial  of  all  his  human  hopes  there  could  be  no  such 
thing  as  resurrection.  To  be  false  to  the  memory  of  his  lost 
bride,  to  forswear  the  oath  he  made  to  himself  when  he 
took  his  priestly  vows,  with  a  wider  or  a  sterner  view  of  the 
priestly  office  than  is  common  to  English  churchmen — to  do 
this  would  be  to  stamp  himself  for  ever  in  his  own  esteem  the 
weakest  and  meanest  of  mankind.  Such  a  thing  was  simply 
impossible.  He  had  therefore  no  snare  to  dread  in  friendly 
companionship  with  a  bright  generous-hearted  young  creature 
wlio  was  infinitely  superior  to  her  surroundings,  a  faulty  soul 
vaguely  struggling  towards  a  purer  atmosphere,  a  woman 
vinom  he  might  help  to  be  good. 

He  felt  that  here  was  a  noble  nature  in  sore  peril  of  shipo 
^reck,  a  creature  with  the  grandest  capabilities,  vAio  might  lor 


60  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

lack  of  culture  achieve  nothing  but   evil;  a   soul  too  easily 
led  astray,  a  heart  too  impulsive  to  resist  temptation. 

"  If  she  were  my  sister  I  would  make  her  one  of  the  noblest 
women  of  her  age,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  a  firm  faith  in  his 
own  influence  upon  this  feebler  feminine  spirit. 

"  Her  very  faults  would  seem  charming  to  some  men,"  he 
told  himself  sagely.  "  That  variableness  which  makes  her  at 
times  the  most  incomprehensible  of  women,  at  other  times  the 
sweetest,  would  lead  a  fool  on  to  his  destruction.  There  was  a 
day  when  I  deemed  her  incapable  of  serious  thought  or  un- 
selfish work;  yet,  once  awake  to  the  sense  of  her  obligations, 
there  has  been  no  limit  to  her  patience  and  devotion." 

And  he  was  the  author  of  this  awakening.  He  felt  a  natural 
pride  and  dehght  in  the  knowledge  of  this.  He  was  the  Pro- 
iiietheus  who  had  l^reathed  the  higher  and  more  spiritual  life 
into  the  nostrils  of  this  lovely  clay.  He  had  snatched  her 
from  the  narrow  influences  of  her  home ;  from  the  easy-going 
thoughtless  father,  whose  mind  hardly  soared  above  the 
consideration  of  his  cellar  or  his  dinner-table ;  from  the  petty 
provincial  society,  with  its  petty  gossip  about  its  own  works 
and  ways,  the  fashion  of  its  garments,  and  its  dinings  and  tea- 
drinkings  and  trivial  domestic  details,  from  Mrs.  Smith's  new 
parlour-maid  to  Mrs.  Brown's  new  bonnet.  It  was  something 
to  have  hfted  her  from  this  slough  of  despond  even  to  the 
outermost  edge  of  a  better  world. 

Yet  she  had  flashes  of  the  old  leaven,  intervals  of  retrogres- 
sion that  afflicted  him  sorely.  During  that  homeward  drive 
from  the  picnic  she  had  been  all  that  the  most  exacting  of 
mankind  could  desire;  sympathetic,  confiding,  understanding 
his  every  thought,  and  eager  to  be  understood ;  candid,  un- 
affected, womanly.  But  when  the  drive  was  over  she  had 
changed,  as  quickly  as  Cinderella  at  midnight's  first  fatal  stroke. 
All  the  glorious  vestments  of  her  regenerated  soul  had  dropped 
away,  leaving  the  old  familiar  rags — the  flippancy,  the  fastness, 
the  insolence  of  conscious  beauty.  That  earnest  talk  by  the 
sundial,  which  Frederick  Melvin  had  watched  from  afar  with 
jealous  eyes,  had  been  in  reality  expostulation.  The  Curate 
had  presumed  to  lecture  his  Yicar's  daughter,  not  in  an  insolent 
hectoring  spirit,  not  in  a  tone  to  which  she  could  fairly  object, 
but  with  a  gentle  gravity,  regretful  that  she  who  had  so  many 
gifts  should  yet  fall  short  of  perfection. 

"How  can  you  talk  such  nonsense?"  she  exclaimed  im- 
petuously, with  an  angry  movement  of  her  graceful  shoulders. 
''  You  know  there  is  no  one  perfect,  you  know  there  is  no  one 
good.  Are  you  not  always  hammering  that  at  us  in  your 
sermons,  making  believe  to  consider  us  the  veriest  dirt — yes,  eveu 
Mrs.  Polwhele,  of  the  Dene,  in  her  new  French  bounet  ?  I  don't 


Stranijers  and  Iftlgrt-mt.  61 

lee  any  use  in  trying  to  please  you.  There  never  was  1  ^ut  one 
perfect  woman,  and  she  is  dead." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  veiy  kind  of  you  to  speak  like  that/"  said 
Mr.  Forde,  "  as  if  you  grudj^^ed  my  praise  of  the  dead." 

"  No,  it  is  not  that;  but  it  seems  hard  that  the  living  should 
Buffer  because — because  you  choose  to  brood  upon  the  memory 
of  some  one  who  was  better  than  they.  I  will  not  shape  myself 
by  any  model,  however  perfect.  Why,"  with  a  little  bitter  laugh, 
"if  I  were  to  become  the  faultless  being  you  tell  me  I  might 
make  myself,  my  perfection  would  only  be  a  plagiarism.  I 
would  rather  be  original,  and  keep  my  sins.  Besides,  what  can 
my  shortcomings  matter  to  you?" 

"  They  matter  very  much  to  me.  Do  you  think  I  am  in- 
terested in  my  congregation  just  for  twenty  minutes,  while  I  am 
preaching  to  them,  and  that  when  I  come  down  the  pulpit-stairs 
all  interest  ceases  till  my  next  sermon  P  " 

"You  should  reserve  your  lectures  for  Gertrude.  She  enjoys 
sermonising  and  being  sermonised.  I  believe  she  keeps  a  journal 
of  her  spiritual  progress.  I  daresay  she  would  like  to  show  it  to 
you.  No  doubt  you  would  find  jjlenty  of  my  sins  duly  booked 
en  loarenthese." 

"  Your  sister  Gertrude  is  a  very  admirable  person,  and  I  was 
beginning  to  hope  you  would  grow  like  her." 

"Thanks  for  the  compliment.  If  I  am  in  any  danger  of 
resembling  Gertrude,  I  shall  leave  off  trying  to  be  good  the  first 
thing  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Good-night,  Miss  Luttrell " 

"  I  am  not  Miss  Luttrell.     My  name  is  Elizabeth." 

"  Good-night,  Elizabeth,"  he  said,  very  coldly ;  and  before  she 
could  speak  again  he  was  gone,  leaving  her  planted  there  by  the 
sundial,  angry  with  herself,  and  still  more  angry  with  him; 
passionately  jealous  of  that  memory  which  was  more  to  him 
than  the  best  and  brightest  of  living  creatures. 

"  Alice  Eraser !  "  she  said  to  herself.  "  Alice  Eraser !  A 
Scotch  clergyman's  daughter,  a  girl  who  never  had  a  well-made 
gown  in  her  life,  I  dare  say.  It  was  her  portrait  I  saw  over  the 
mantelpiece  in  his  sitting-room,  no  doubt.  A  poor  little  namliv- 
pamby  face,  with  pleading  eyes  always  seeming  to  say,  '  For- 
give me  for  being  a  little  better  than  everybody  else.'  And 
that  cup  and  saucer  under  the  glass  shade !  Hers,  no  doubt, 
used  in  her  last  illness.  Poor  girl !  it  was  hard  to  be  stricken 
down  like  that;  and  yet  how  sweet  to  die  with  his  arms  holding 
her,  his  agonised  lace  bent  over  hers,  his  quiveiing  lips  bent 
close  to  hers  to  catch  the  last  faint  breath  !  What  was  there  in 
that  poor  little  meek-souled  thing  to  hold  him  in  life,  and  after 
death — to  set  a  seal  upon  his  strong  heart,  and  keep  it  even  ip, 
hor  gruye  ?     It  is  more  than  I  can  understand."' 

E 


62  Strangers  and  Pilyrms. 

In  tte  brief  intervals  of  leisure  whicli  his  daily  duties  left  him 
— very  brief  at  the  best — Mr.  Forde  found  his  thoughts  return 
with  a  strange  persistency  to  the  image  of  EUz;abeth  Luttrell. 
It  was  not  that  he  saw  her  often,  for  they  had  not  encountered 
each  other  since  the  picnic,  the  young  lady  having  been  absent 
when  he  paid  his  duty-call  at  the  Vicarage.  It  was  perhaps 
because  she  was  less  agreeable  than  other  women ;  because  shs 
rebelled  and  defied  him,  and  argued  with  him  flippantly,  where 
other  damsels  bowed  down  and  worshipped;  because  she  had 
never  weakened  her  optic  nerves  by  a  laborious  course  of  tent- 
stitch  and  satin-stitch;  because  she  had  refused  to  lead  the 
choir  of  Sunday-school  children,  or  to  take  a  class  in  the  Sun- 
day-school; because  she  was  in  every  respect,  save  ii  her  late 
amendment  in  the  district-visiting  way,  exactly  what  a  clergy- 
man's daughter  ought  not  to  be,  that  Malcolm  Forde  suifered 
his  mind  to  dwell  upon  her  in  the  dead  watches  of  the  night, 
and  gave  her  a  very  disproportionate  amount  of  his  consideration 
at  all  times  and  seasons. 

Of  late  he  had  been  seriously  disturbed  about  her ;  for  shortly 
after  the  picnic  there  came  a  change  in  the  damsel's  conduct,  a 
sad  falling  away  in  her  district- visiting.  The  women  whom  she 
had  attached  to  her  bewailed  this  fact  to  Mr.  Forde. 

"  I  thought  as  how  she'd  been  ill,  poor  dear,"  said  one ;  "  biit 
when  I  went  to  church  last  Sunday,  there  she  was,  with  her 
head  held  as  high  as  ever,  like  a  queen,  bless  her  handsome  face, 
and  more  colour  in  her  cheeks  than  she  used  to  have.  She  sent 
me  a  gownd  last  week  by  the  vicarage  housemaid,  and  a  regular 

food  one,  not  a  brack  in  it ;  but  though  I  was  humbly  thankful, 
'd  rather  have  seen  her,  as  I  used  when  she'd  come  and  sit 
agen  my  wash-tub  reading  the  Gosjoel." 

He  heard  this  lamentation,  in  different  forms,  from  several 
women,  and  after  some  inquiry  discovered  that,  exceptto  visit 
a  sick  child,  Elizabeth  had  not  been  among  her  people  since  the 
day  of  the  picnic  at  Lawborough  Beeches.  She  had  sent  them 
^a,  and  small  benefactions  of  that  kind,  by  the  hand  of  a 
menial, — benefactions  for  which  they  were  duly  grateful, — but 
they  missed  her  visits  not  the  less. 

"  She's  such  good  company,"  remarked  one  woman :  "  not 
like  most  of  your  districk-visitors,  which  make  you  feel  that 
down-hearted  as  if  you'd  had  a  undertaker  talkin'  to  you.  She's 
got  such  pleasant  lively  ways,  and  yet  as  pitiful  as  j)itiful  if 
there's  sickness.  And  she  do  make  herself  so  at  home  in  one's 
place.  'Let  me  dust  your  chimbleypiece,  Mrs.  Mon-is,'  she 
says  to  me ;  and  dusts  it  before  I  can  look,  and  sets  the  things 
•>ut  so  pretty,  and  brings  me  that  there  blue  chaney  vaise  next 
my,  bless  her  kind  heart !" 
Mr.  Forde  was  deeply  grieved  by  this  falling  ofiP.    It  seemed 


Strangers  and  Pilf/rims.  63 

as  if  the  Promethean  spark  had  been  untimely  blown  out.  The 
beautiful  clay  was  once  more  only  clay.  He  felt  unspeak- 
ably disheartened  by  the  straying  of  this  one  lamb,  which  he 
had  sought  to  gather  into  the  fold. 

Once  possessed  of  his  facts,  he  went  straightway  to  the 
Vicarage  to  remonstrate. 

"  I  do  not  care  how  obnoxious  I  render  myself  to  her,"  he 
thought.  "  I  am  not  here  to  speak  smooth  words.  If  her 
father  neglects  his  duty,  there  is  so  much  more  reason  I  should 
do  mine." 

The  year  had  grown  six  weeks  older  since  the  picnic.  In 
summer  time  the  Luttrell  girls — with  the  exception  of  Gertrude, 
who  was  always  busy— lived  for  the  most  part  a  stragi^ling  hfe, 
scattering  themselves  about  garden  and  orchard,  and  doing  all 
things  in  a  desultory  manner.  In  summer  the  Curate  might 
have  felt  tolerably  sure  of  finding  Elizabeth  alone  under  some 
favourite  tree,  reading  a  novel,  or  making  believe  to  work.  To- 
day it  was  different.  The  October  afternoon  was  fine,  but  chill. 
He  would  have  to  seek  his  erring  sister  in  the  house,  to  inquire 
for  the  Vicar  and  the  young  ladies  alter  the  usual  manner  of 
visitors,  and  to  take  his  chance  of  getting  a  few  words  alone 
with  Elizabeth. 

He  looked  right  and  left  of  the  winding  path  as  he  went  from 
the  garden-gate  to  the  house,  but  saw  no  ghmpse  of  female 
apparel  athwart  the  tall  hollyhocks ;  so  he  was  lain  to  go  on 
to  the  hall-door.  He  was  not  particularly  observant  of  details ; 
but  it  struck  him  that  the  gray  old  house  had  a  smarter  aspect 
than  usual.  The  carriage  drive  had  been  lately  rolled;  there 
was  even  some  indication  of  a  thin  coating  of  nev/  gravel. 
Muslin  curtains  that  were  unfamiliar  to  his  eyes  shrouded  the 
bow-windows  of  the  drawing-room,  and  a  little  yapping  black- 
and-tan  terrier — the  veriest  abbreviation  of  the  dog  species — 
flew  out  of  a  half-open  door  to  gird  at  him  as  he  rang  the  bell. 

The  vicarage  parlour-maid — a  young  woman  he  had  prepared 
for  confirmation  twelve  months  before — came  smiling  to  admit 
him.  Even  she  had  an  altered  air — more  starch  in  her  gown,  a 
emart  white  apron,  cherry-coloured  bows  in  her  cap. 

"  Is  Mr.  Luttrell  at  houie .?  " 

"  No,  sir.  Master  went  to  Bulford  in  the  pony-chaise  with 
Miss  Luttrell  directly  after  lunch.  But  the  otheryoung  ladiea 
are  in  the  drawing-room,  sir,  and  Mrs.  Cheveuix." 

He  went  into  the  hall — a  square  low-ceilinged  chamber,  em- 
bellished with  antiquated  cabinets  of  cracked  oriental  china ;  an 
ancient  barometer ;  a  pair  of  antlers,  with  a  fox's  brush  lying 
across  them,  both  trophies  of  the  Vicar's  prowess  in  the  field"; 
a  smoky-looking  piece  of  still-life,  with  the  usual  cut  lemon  and 
dead  leveret  and  monster  bunch  of  impossible  grapes ;  the  still 


64  Strai^gers  and  Pilgrims. 

emokier  portrait  of  an  old  gentleman  of  the  pig-tail  period ;  and 
Bundry  other  specimens  of  art,  which,  massed  into  one  lot  of 
oddments  at  an  auction,  might  iA^Bsibly  have  realised  a  fi'^e- 
pound  note. 

"Mrs.  Chepenix?  "  said  the  Curate  interrogatively. 

•'  Yes,  sir — the  yonng  ladies'  aunt,  sir — master's  sister  ?  " 

"  0,"  said  Mr.  Forde.  He  faintly  remembered  having  hoard 
of  this  lady — the  well-to-do  aunt  and  godmother  who  had  given 
Diana  the  grand  piano;  an  aunt  who  was  sometimes  alluded  to 
confidently  by  Blanche  as  an  authority  upon  all  matters  of  taste 
and  fashion ;  a  person  possessed  of  a  universal  knowledge,  of 
the  lighter  sort;  whose  judgment  as  to  the  best  book  or  the 
cleverest  picture  of  the  season  was  a  judgment  beyond  dispute ; 
who  knew  the  ins  and  oiits  of  life  aristocratic  and  life  diplomatic, 
and  would  naturally  be  one  of  the  first  persons  to  be  informed 
of  an  approaching  marriage  in  fashionable  circles  or  an  im- 
pending war. 

Without  ever  having  seen  this  lady,  Mr.  Forde  had,  from  his 
inner  consciousness,  as  it  were,  evolved  some  faint  image  of  her, 
and  the  image  was  eminently  distasteful  to  him.  He  disliked 
Mr8.  Chevenix,  more  or  less  on  the  Dr.  Fell  principle.  The 
reason  why  he  could  not  tell,  but  he  most  assuredly  did  dislike 
her. 

He  could  understand  now  that  tlie  new  muslin  curtains  and 
the  sprinkling  cf  new  gravel  were  expenses  incurred  in  honour 
of  this  superior  jjerson.  He  kept  his  hat  in  his  hand, — he 
•would  ha.ve  left  it  in  the  hall  most  likely,  had  the  young  ladies 
been  alone, — and  thus  armed,  v/ent  in  to  be  presented  to  Mrs. 
Chevenix. 

"  0,  how  do  yon  do,  Mr.  Forde  P"  cried  Diana,  bouncing  up 
from  the  hearthrug,  where  she  had  been  caressing  the  infinitesi- 
mal terrier.  "  You  are  quite  a  stranger.  We  never  set  -"^ou 
now,  except  in  church.  Let  me  present  you  to  my  aunt,  Mrs. 
Chevenix." 

He  had  a  sense  of  something  large  and  brown  and  i-ustling 
rising  with  a  stately  air  between  him  and  the  light,  and  then 
slowly  sinking  into  the  luxurious  depths  of  a  capacious  arm- 
chair ;  a  chair  not  indigenous  to  the  vicarage  drawing-room, 
evidently  an  additional  luxury  provided  for  aunt  Chevenix. 

He  had  shaken  hands  with  Diana,  and  bowed  to  aunt  Cheve- 
nix— who  maintained  an  aristocratic  reserve  on  the  subject  of 
hand-shaking,  and  did  not  go  about  the  world  offering  her  hand 
to  tke  first  comer — in  a  somev/hat  absent-minded  manner.  He 
haa  performed  th^se  two  ceremonies  with  his  eyes  wandering  in 
quest  of  that  oCner  Miss  Luttrell  for  whose  special  behalf  he 
had  come  to  the  Vicarage. 

She — Elizabeth — sat  in  a  low  chair  by  the  ire,  reading   a 


Strangers     atd  Pilgrims.  65 

novel,  tne  very  picture  of  contented  idleness.  She  too,  Uke  the 
house,  seemed  to  him  altered.  Her  garments  had  a  more 
fashionable  air.  That  Puritan  simplicity  she  had  assumed  at 
the  beginning  of  her  career  as  a  district-visitor  was  entirely  dis- 
carded. She  wore  lockets  and  trinkets  which  he  had  not  seen 
her  wear  of  late,  and  rich  plaits  of  dark  brown  hair  were  piled 
high  on  the  graceful  head,  like  the  pictures  in  fashion-books. 

She  rose  now  to  greet  him  with  a  languid  air,  an  elegant  indif- 
erence  of  manner  which  he  surmised  had  been  im[.iHrted  by  the 
stately  personage  in  histrous  brown  silk.  They  shook  handf 
coldly  cinough  on  both  sides,  and  Elizabeth  resumed  her  seat, 
with  her  book  open  in  her  lap. 

Mrs.  Chevenix  sat  with  her  portly  brown-silk  back  towards 
the  bow  window.  It  was  one  of  Mrs.  Chevenix's  principles  to 
sit  with  her  back  to  the  light,  whereby  a  soupfon  of  pead- 
powder  and  hair-dye  was  rendered  less  obvious  to  the  obsei-ver. 
A  beauty  had  Mrs.  Chevenix  been  in  her  time,  ay,  and  as 
acknowledged  a  beauty  as  Elizabeth  Luttrell  herself,  although 
it  would  have  cost  Malcolm  Forde  a  profound  effort  of  faith 
to  believe  that  vivid  flashing  brunette  loveliness  of  Elizabeth's 
could  ever  develop  into  the  fleshly  charms  of  the  matron.  But 
in  certain  circles,  and  in  her  own  estimation,  Mrs.  Chevenix  still 
took  high  rank  as  a  fine  woman.  She  had  arrived  at  that  arid 
full-blown  stage  of  existence  in  which  a  woman  can  only  be 
distinguished  as  fine,  in  which  a  carefully  preserved  figure  and 
a  complexion  eked  out  by  art  are  the  last  melancholy  vestiges 
of  departed  beauty. 

She  was  a  large  person,  with  a  large  aquiline-nosed  counten- 
ance framed  by  broad-plaited  bands  of  flaxen  hair.  Her  cheeks 
bloomed  with  the  florid  bloom  of  middle  age,  delicately  toned 
down  by  a  judicious  application  of  pearl-powder ;  her  arched 
eyebrows  were  several  shades  darker  than  her  hair,  and  a  little 
too  regular  for  nature ;  her  eyes  were  blue — cold  calculating  eyes, 
which  looked  as  if  they  had  never  beheld  the  outer  world  as  any- 
thing better  than  a  theatre  for  the  advancement  and  gratification 
of  self;  or  at  least  this  was  the  idea  which  those  chilly  azure 
orbs  inspired  in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Forde  as  he  sat  opposite  the 
lady,  talking  small  talk  and  telling  Diana  Luttrell  the  news  of 
his  parish. 

Mrs.  Chevenix  had  a  certain  good-society  manner  which  was 
as  artificial  as  her  eyebrows,  or  the  bluish-white  tints  that  toned 
her  cheek-bones;  and  of  this  manner  she  kept  two  samples 
always  in  stock — the  gushing  and  vivacious  style  which  she 
affected  with  people  whom  sh#  deemed  her  superiors,  the 
listless  and  patronising,  or  secondary  manner,  wherewith  she 
gratified  her  niferiors. 

It  wai  of  course  not  likely  she  would  take  the  trouble  to  guall 


66  Strangers  and  Pilf/rims. 

for  her  brother's  curate,  even  though  he  might  be  a  person  ol 
decent  family,  and  possessed  of  independent  means.  Had  he 
been  an  "  Honourable,"  a  scion,  however  remote,  of  aome  dis- 
tinguished house  in  the  peerage,  she  would  have  beamed  upon 
him  with  her  most  entrancing  smiles.  But  an  unknown 
Scotchman ;  a  man  who  had  been  described  to  her  as  terribly 
in  earnest;  a  person  of  revolutionary  principles,  who  set  him- 
self against  the  existing  order  of  things,  wanting  to  reform  this 
and  that,  and  perhaps  to  level  the  convenient  barriers  which 
keep  the  common  herd  in  their  proper  places ;  a  dismal  person, 
no  doubt,  full  of  strange  wailings,  Uke  the  ancient  prophets, 
whom  she  heard  wonderingly  sometimes  at  church,  giving  them 
just  as  much  attention  as  she  could  spare  from  the  fair  vista  of 
new  bonnets  shining  in  a  shaft  of  light  from  the  gothic  window, 
and  who  seemed  to  her  to  have  been  distracted  personages 
eminently  ineligible  for  dinner-parties. 

"  Aunt  Chevenix  missed  your  sermon  last  Sunday  morning, 
Mr.  Forde,"  said  Diana.  "  She  had  one  of  her  headaches,  and 
was  afraid  the  church  might  be  hot." 

"  In  October  ?  "  said  Mr.  Forde,  smiling.  "Our  congregation 
is  not  vast  enough  for  that."  He  did  not  express  any  regret 
about  his  loss  of  such  a  hearer  as  aunt  Chevenix. 

"I  am  really  fond  of  a  good  sermon,"  remarked  the  lady 
blandly,  trifling  with  a  shining  black  fan,  wherewith  she  was 
wont  to  flap  the  empty  air  at  all  times  and  seasons.  This  fan,  a 
gold-rimmed  eye-glass,  and  a  double-headed  scent-bottle,  were 
Mrs.  Chevenix's  only  means  of  employment,  after  she  had  read 
the  Morning  Post  and  accomplished  her  diurnal  tale  of  letter- 
writing.  "And  good  sermons  are  become  so  rare,"  she  went  on 
in  her  slow  pompous  way.  "  I  have  heard  no  eloquent  preacher 
for  the  last  live  years,  except  the  Bishop  of  Granchester." 

"  You  would  not  say  that  if  you  had  heard  Mr.  Forde,"  said 
Diana. 

Mrs.  Chevenix  put  up  her  eyeglass  and  looked  at  the  Curate 
with  a  languid  smile,  as  if  with  the  aid  of  that  instrument  she 
were  able  to  make  a  precise  estimate  of  his  powers. 

"  Mr.  Forde  is  a  young  man,  my  dear.  It  is  hardly  fair  to 
name  him  in  the  same  breath  with  the  bishop." 

Elizabeth,  who  had  been  turning  the  leaves  of  her  book  list- 
lessly with  an  air  of  absolute  inattention,  flashed  out  at  this. 

"  Mr.  Forde  is  natural,"  she  said,  "  which  is  more  than  I  can 
say  for  the  bishop.  I  admit  his  eloquence,  his  grand  bass  voice, 
sinking  to  an  almost  awful  solemnity  at  every  climax.  But  it 
Beems  to  me  a  tutored  eloqufeice.  I  could  fancy  him  an  actor 
in  a  Greek  play,  declaiming  behind  a  mask.  Mr.  Forde"— a 
Budden  pause,  as  if  she  had  been  going  to  say  a  great  deal,  an<J 
had  hastily  checked  herself — "  is  different." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims*  67 

Malcolm  Forde  listened  with  eyes  bent  on  the  ground  ;  but 
jnst  at  the  last  words  he  raised  those  dark  deep-set  eyes,  and 
glanced  at  the  speaker.  "What  a  splendid  face  it  was,  with  ita 
look  of  intense  hfe,  its  scorn  of  scorn,  or  love  of  love ;  a  natui-e 
in  all  thinfTs  intensified,  like  that  typical  poet  who  in  a  golden 
chnne  was  born. 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  noble  creature,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  No 
matter  how  capricious,  or  fickle,  or  unstable.  She  is  a  creature 
of  fire  aud  light,  and  she  shall  not  be  lost,  not  for  all  the  aunt 
Chevenixes  in  the  world." 

He  cast  a  swift  glance  of  defiance  at  the  harmless  matron  in 
brown  silk  and  flaxen  plaits  crowned  with  blonde  and  artificial 
roses,  as  if  she  had  been  the  foul  fiend  himself,  and  he  playing 
a  desperate  game  of  chess  with  her  for  this  fair  young  soul. 
He  had  always  disHked  the  family  fetish,  when  she  had  been 
only  a  remote  and  unknown  image  to  bo  invoked  ever  when 
there  was  question  of  the  proprieties.  But  he  disliked  her  most 
of  all  now,  when  she  was  seated  within  tlie  citadel,  and  was 
poisoning  the  atmosphere  of  EUzabeth's  home  with  her  worldly 
spirit. 

He  was  swift  to  condemn  and  to  suspect,  perhaps,  since  he 
had  seen  very  little  of  the  lady  as  yet ;  but  that  inane  small- 
talk,  that  stale  gossip  of  Eaton-square  and  Lancaster-gate,  that 
bismuth-shaded  cheek,  that  practicable  eyebrow,  which  elevated 
itself  with  a  trained  expression  of  irony,  or  drooped  with  a 
studied  langour — all  these  artificialities  told  him  the  nature  of 
the  woman,  and  told  him  that  she  was  the  last  of  creatures  whom 
he  would  care  to  see  in  daily  communion  with  a  girl  whose  way* 
ward  disposition  had  of  late  been  curiously  interesting  to  him. 

That  dogmatic  assertion  of  his  superiority  even  to  a  bishop, 
hurled  at  the  very  teeth  of  the  family  idol,  pleased  him 
mightily.  It  was  not  conceit  that  was  gratified — it  was  sweet 
to  him  to  discover  that,  in  spite  of  all  her  affected  scorn,  this 
girl  appreciated  him. 

He  did  not  ackno-^fledge  her  compliment,  except  by  one  brief 
smile — that  slow  quiet  curve  of  the  firm  thoughtful  lips,  which 
was  sweeter  than  common  smiles.  He  went  on  patiently  with 
the  morning-caller  talk,  listened  tolerantly  to  small  scraps  of 
information  about  the  Lancaster-gateites,  until  he  could  fairly 
rise  to  depart.  But  he  did  not  mean  to  leave  the  Vicarage  with 
his  mission  unfulfilled. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  few  minutes  in  the  garden  ?  "  he  said,  iu 
a  low  voice,  as  he  shook  hands  wj^h  Elizabeth.  "  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  about  your  cottagers." 

The  ears  of  the  Chevenix,  more  acute  than  those  chilly  blue 
eyes  which  required  the  aid  of  binoculars,  pricked  up  at  this 
eound  of  confidential  converse. 


C8  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

"  Did  I  hear  you  say  something  about  cottagers,  Mr.  Forde  P" 
she  demanded  sharply. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "I  was  speaking  of  that  order  ot 
creatures."  He  was  strongly  tempted  to  add,  "  who  do  not 
inhabit  Lancaster-gate,"  but  judiciously  held  his  peace. 

"  Then  I  must  beg  that  you  do  not  put  any  more  nonsense 
about  district-visiting  into  my  niece's  head.  It  is  all  very  well 
for  Gertrude,  who  is  strong,  physically  and  mentally,  and  is  not 
of  so  impressionable  a  nature  as  Elizabeth,  and  is  some  years 
older,  into  the  bargain.  I  consider  there  is  more  than  enough 
done  for  the  poor  in  this  place.  My  brother  gives  away  half 
his  income,  and  spends  as  much  of  his  time  amongst  his 
parishioners  as — as — his  health  will  permit.  Besides  which  he 
nas  of  course  a  powerful  auxiliary  in  his  curate,  whose  duty  it 
is,  naturally,  to  devote  himself  to  that  kind  of  thing.  And  then 
there  are  always  maiden  ladies  in  a  place — good-hearted  dowdy 
souls,  who  delight  in  that  sort  of  work ;  so  that  you  can  hardly 
be  in  want  of  aid.  But,  however  that  may  be,  I  cannot  pos- 
sibly allow  my  niece  to  fatigue  herself  and  excite  herself  as  she 
has  done  at  your  suggestion.  I  found  her  in  a  really  low  state 
when  I  came  here — depressed  in  spirits,  and  nervous  to  the  last 
degree." 

Elizabeth  flamed  crimson  at  this. 

"  How  can  j'ou  talk  such  nonsense,  aunt?"  she  cried  angrily, 
being  the  only  one  of  the  sisters  who  was  not  habitually  over- 
awed by  aunt  Chevenix.  "I  am  sure  I  was  well  enough; 
but  those  London  doctors  put  such  twaddle  into  your  head." 

Mrs.  Chevenix  sighed  gently,  and  gravely  shook  the  head 
which  was  accused  of  harbouring  professional  twaddle. 

"  If  your  niece  is  to  go  to  heaven,  I  fancy  she  will  have  to 
travel  by  her  own  line  of  country,  without  reference  to  you. 
Mrs.  Chevenix,"  said  Malcolm  Forde.  "  I  do  not  think  she  will 
submit  to  be  forljidden  to  do  her  duty  among  her  father's  flock. 
It  is  not  a  question  of  just  what  is  most  conducive  to  health  or 
high  spirits.  I  do  not  say  that  I  would  have  her  " — this  with 
an  almost  tender  emphasis  on  the  pronoun — "sacrifice  health 
or  length  of  years  even  for  the  holiest  work,  but  we  know  such 
Bacrifices  are  only  the  natural  expression  of  her  perfect  faith.  I 
am  not  asking  her  to  do  anything  hard  or  unpleasant,  however. 
For  her,  the  yoke  may  be  of  the  easiest,  the  burden  of  the 
lijhtes*^..  If  you  knew,  as  I  do,  how  in  two  or  three  months 
she  ha<  contrived  to  win  the  hearts  of  these  people — what  good 
her  in/'  ^nce  may  do  almost  unconsciously  on  her  part — I  think 
you  T.'Oj.J  hardly  talk  abou^  forbidding  her  to  give  some  time 
and  thought  to  her  father'^  poor." 

He  spoke  warmly,  and  it  was  the  first  time  that  anything 
approaching  praise  had  dropped  from  hisUos.     Elizabeth  looked 


Strangers  and  I'llf/rims.  G9 

Bi  him  with  a  glowing  face,  dark  eyes  that  brightened  as  they 
looked. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Forde,"  she  said;  "I  did  not  know  I  was 
of  any  use,  and  I  got  disheartened;  and  when  aunt  Chevenix 
came,  I  gave  the  busiaess  up  altogether*  But  [  shall  begin 
again  to-morrow." 

Aunt  Chevenix  stared  at  Eliaabeth,  and  from  Elizabeth  to 
Mr.  Forde,  with  a  stony  stare  of  speechless  indignation. 

"  O,  very  well,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  her  niece  at  last.  "  Of 
course,  you  must  know  best  what  is  conducive  to  your  own 
happiness."  And  then  she  sniiled  a  sniff,  as  who  rhould  say, 
"  I  can  bequeath  my  money  elsewhere.  You  have  sisters,  my 
foolish  Elizabeth,  as  dependent  as  yourself.  I  can  instruct  my 
solicitor  to  i^repare  a  codicil  revoking  that  clause  in  my  will 
which  has  reference  to  your  interests." 

Mr.  Forde  had  gained  his  point,  and  cared  very  little  what 
smothered  fires  might  be  glowing  in  the  Chevenix  breast. 
Elizabeth  went  out  into  the  garden  with  him,  bare-headed, 
heedless  of  a  chill  October  nor'-wester,  and  heard  all  he  could 
teU  her  about  her  neglected  poor,  questioning  him  eagerly. 

"  Poor  souls,  are  they  really  fond  of  me  ? "  she  exclaimed 
remorsefully.  "  I  did  not  know  it  was  in  me  to  do  any 
good." 

On  this  Malcolm  Forde  grew  eloquent,  told  her  as  he  had 
never  told  her  before  the  value  of  such  a  soul  as  hers,  gifted 
with  rare  capabilities,  with  powers  so  far  above  life's  ordinary 
level;  urged  her  to  rise  superior  to  her  surroundings,  to  be 
something  greater  and  bettor  than  the  common  uew-bonnet- 
worshipping  young-ladyhood  of  Hawleigh. 

"  I  am  not  depreciating  your  home  or  your  family,  Elizabeth," 
he  said,  remembering  that  sh-e  had  accorded  him  this  free  use 
of  her  Christian  name ;  "  but  the  world  has  grown  so  worldly, 
even  religion  seems  to  have  lost  its  spirituc>.lity.  There  is  r\ 
trading  spirit,  an  assumption  of  fiishion,  in  om  very  temples. 
Indeed,  I  am  sometimes  doubtful  whetlif-  our  floral  decorations 
and  embroidered  altar-cloths  are  not  a  dekisicn  and  a  snare.  It 
should  be  good  to  make  our  churchis  beautiful:  yet  there 
are  moments  when  I  doubt  the  witdom  of  these  things 
They  make  too  direct  an  appeal  to  the  senses.  I  hud  myself 
yearning  for  the  stern  simplicity  of  thp  Scottish  Ch  irch — that 
unembellished  service  which  Edward  living  could  make  so  vast 
an  instrument  for  the  regeneration  ot  rnaukind.  He  had  no 
flower-decked  chancel,  no  white-robed  choir.  It  was  only  r. 
voice  crying  in  the  city-wilderness." 

This  he  said  meditatively,  straying  from  the  chief  subject  of 
his  discourse,  and  giving  expression  almost  involuntarily  to  u 
doujii'  that  had  been  tormenting  him  of  late.     He  broutrht  him- 


70  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

self  back  to  the  more  personal  question  of  Elizabeth's  spiritual 

welfare  presently. 

"  Why  did  you  keep  away  from  your  people  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Were  you  really  ill?  or  was  it  your  aunt's  influence?" 

Slie  looked  at  him  with  a  mischievous  daring  in  her  eyes. 

"Neither  one  nor  the  other." 

"Then  why  was  it?  You  had  been  going  on  so  well  and  so 
steadily,  and  I  was  beginning  to  be  proud  of  you.  I  trust — " 
this  slowly,  and  -with  hesitation — "  I  trust  there  was  nothing  I 
said  that  day  at  the  picnic  which  could  have  a  deterring  influence, 
or  which  could  have  off"ended  you." 

"I  was  not  ofi'ended,"  she  answered,  her  lips  quivering  faintly, 
her  face  turned  away  from  him.  "  What  was  there  to  offend 
me  P  Only  you  made  me  feel  myself  so  poor  a  creature,  my 
highest  efforts  so  infinitely  beneath  your  ideal  of  perfect  woman- 
hood, my  feeble  sti'uggles  at  self-improvement  so  mean  and  futile 
measured  by  your  heroic  standard,  that  I  did  perhaps  feel  a 
little  discouraged,  and  a  little  inclined  to  give  up  striving  to 
make  myself  what  nature  had  evidently  not  intended  me  to  be 
— an  estimable  woman." 

"  Nature  intended  you  to  be  good  and  great,"  answered  Mr. 
Forde  earnestly. 

"  But  not  like  Alice Fraser,"  said  Elizabeth,  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"  There  are  different  kinds  of  perfection.  Hers  was  an  innate 
and  unconscious  purity,  a  limitless  power  of  self-sacrifice.  She 
was  the  ideal  daughter  of  the  manse,  a  creature  who  had  never 
known  a  selfish  thought,  to  whom  the  labours  which  I  presa 
upon  you  as  a  duty  were  a  second  nature.  She  had  never  lived 
except  for  others.  I  cannot  say  less  or  more  of  her  than  I  told 
you  that  day — she  was  simply  perfect.  Yet  you  have  gifts 
which  she  did  not  possess — a  more  energetic  "nature,  a  quicker 
intelligence.  There  is  no  good  or  noble  work  a  woman  can  do 
in  this  woi-ld  that  you  could  not  do,  if  you  chose." 

Elizabeth  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"  I  have  no  endurance,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  vain  and  feeble.  O, 
believe  me,  I  have  by  no  means  a  lofty  estimate  of  my  own 
character.  I  require  to  be  sustained  by  constant  praise.  It  is 
vU  very  well  while  you  are  encouraging  me,  I  feel  capable  of 
anything ;  but  when  I  have  gone  plodding  on  for  two  or  three 
months  longer,  and  yea  take  my  good  conduct  for  granted,  I 
shall  grow  weary  again,  and  fall  away  again." 

"Not  if  you  will  iook  to  a  higher  source  for  support  and  inspira- 
tion. My  praises  are  a  very  poor  reward.  Trust  to  the  approval 
of  your  own  conscience  rather ;  and  forgive  me  if  I  urge  you  to 
keep  yourself  free  from  the  influence  of  Mrs.  ChevenLx.  It 
seems  imj^ertinent  in  me,  no  doubt,  to  presume  to  judge  a  lady 
I  have  only  seen  for  half  au  hour " 


Strangers  and  Pilgrivis.  71 

"0,  pray  don't  apologise,"  exclaimed  Elizabeth  in  her  careless 
way ;  "  I  have  a  perfect  appreciation  of  aunt  Chevenix.  She  ia 
the  family  idol ;  the  goddess  whom  we  all  worship,  conciliating 
her  with  all  manner  of  sacrifices  of  our  inclinations.  She  pre- 
sides over  us  in  spirit  even  when  at  a  distance,  imparting  her 
oracles  in  letters.  Of  course  she  is  the  very  essence  of  worldli- 
ncss.  Is  it  not  written  in  all  the  roses  that  garnish  her  cap  ? 
But  she  married  a  clever  barrister,  who  blossomed  in  due  course 
into  a  county-court  judge,  and  died  five  years  ago  of  a  fit  of 
apoplexy,  which  was  considered  the  natural  result  of  a  pro- 
longed series  of  dinners,  leaving  aunt  Chevenix  fifteen  hundred 
a  year  at  her  own  disposal.  She  never  had  any  children,  and 
we  four  girls  are  all  she  can  boast  of  in  the  way  of  nephews  or 
nieces,  so  it  is  an  understood  thing  that  the  fifteen  hundred  a 
year  must  ultimately  come  to  us,  and  we  are  paying  aunt 
Chevenix  in  advance  for  her  bounty,  by  deferring  to  her  in  all 
things.  She  is  not  half  so  bad  as  you  might  suppose  from  her 
little  pompous  ways  and  her  fan  and  eyeglass;  and  I  really 
think  she  is  fond  of  us." 

Not  a  pleasing  confession  to  a  man  of  Malcolm  Forde's  tem- 
perament from  the  lij^s  of  a  beautiful  girl.  This  waiting  for 
dead  men's  shoes  was  of  all  modex-n  vices  the  one  that  seemed  to 
him  meanest. 

"  I  hope  you  wiU  not  allow  your  conduct  to  be  influenced  by 
any  consideration  of  your  reversionary  interest  in  Mrs.  Chevenix's 
income,"  he  said  gravely. 

"  You  need  have  no  fear  of  that,"  she  answered  lightly.  "  I 
never  took  any  one's  advice  in  my  life — except  perhaps  yours — 
and  as  to  being  dictated  to  by  aunt  Chevenix,  that  is  quite  out 
of  the  question.  I  am  the  only  one  of  the  family  who  defies 
her ;  and,  strange  to  say,  I  enjoy  the  reputation  of  being  her 
favourite." 

"  I  don't  wish  you  to  defy  her,"  said  Mr.  Forde,  with  his 
serious  smile.  She  seemed  to  him  at  some  moments  only  a 
wayward  child,  this  girl  whom  he  was  urging  to  become  good 
and  great.  "You  may  be  all  that  a  niece  should  be — kind, 
affectionate,  and  respectful— and  yet  retain  your  right  of  judg- 
ment." 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  He  had  been  at  the  Yicarage  more 
than  an  hour,  and  half  that  time  had  been  spent  walking  to  and 
fro  beside  the  autumnal  china-asters  and  chrysanthemums,  with 
Ehzabeth  for  his  companion. 

"  I  have  detained  you  longer  than  I  intended,"  he  said.  "  I 
shall  tell  Mrs.  Morris  and  Mrs.  Brown  that  you  are  coming  td 
see  them.     Good-bye." 

He  stood  by  the  broad  barred  gate— a  homely  farmhouse 
looking  gate,  painted  white — a  tall  vigorous  figure,  unclerical  (A 


72  Strangers  and  PiJgrimt. 

aspect,  with  the  erect  soldierly  air  that  had  not  departed  from 
him  on  his  change  of  jorofession,  a  man  who  looked  like  a  leader 
of  men,  the  dark  earnest  eyes  looking  downward  at  Elizabeth, 
the  broad  strong  hand  clasping  hers  with  the  firm  clasp  of 
friendship.  Verily  a  tower  of  strength  such  a  friend  as  this, 
worth  a  legion  of  the  common  clay  which  men  and  women 
count  as  friends. 

Elizabeth  stood  by  the  gate  watching  him  as  he  walked  along 
khe  white  high-road  towards  Hawleigh. 

"  He  looks  like  a  red-cross  knight  disguised  in  modern  cos- 
tume," ^he  said  to  herself;  "he  looks  like  Hercules  in  a  frock-coat. 
How  different  from  slim  little  Mr.  Adderley,  picking  his  steps  upon 
the  dusty  causeway.  And  now  he  will  go  from  house  to  house, 
and  teach,  and  read,  and  exhort,  and  help,  and  counsel,  till  tea 
o'clock  to-night,  with  only  just  time  for  a  hasty  dinner  between 
his  labours.  And  yet  he  is  never  weary,  and  never  thinks  his 
life  barren,  and  never  longs  to  be  in  London  among  happy 
crowds  of  refined  men  and  women  enjoying  all  the  delights  that 
the  science  of  pleasure  can  devise  for  them — operas,  and  concerts, 
and  races,  and  picture-shows,  and  flower  shows,  and  a  hundred 
gatherings  together  of  taste,  and  beauty,  and  refinement..  Does 
he  ever  long  for  that  kind  of  life,  I  wonder,  the  very  fringe  or 
outer  edge  of  which  is>  delightful,  if  one  may  believe  aunt 
Chevenix?  Or  does  he  languish  for  a  roving  life — as  I  do  some- 
times— among  fair  strange  countries,  sailing  on  the  blue  waters 
of  the  Adriatic  or  the  Archipelago,  among  tiie  sunny  islands  of 
the  old  Greek  world,  or  wandering  in  the  shady  depths  of  the 
black  forest,  or  on  thymy  mountain  tops,  or  amidst  regions  of 
everlasting  snow?  Has  he  no  hours  of  vain  despondency  and 
longing,  as  I  have  ?  Or  did  he  concentrate  all  his  hopes  and 
desires  upon  Alice  Eraser,  and  bury  them  all  in  her  grave  ?" 

She  was  in  no  hurry  to  return  to  the  drawing-room  fireside 
and  the  Chevenix  atmosphere  of  genteel  idleness.  Instead  of 
going  back  to  the  house,  she  went  from  the  garden  to  the 
orchai"d,  and  paced  that  grassy  slope  alone,  circulating  slowly 
among  the  mossgrown  trunks  of  the  apple  and  cherry  trees, 
'•'uinking  of  Malcohn  Forde. 

"  How  good  he  is,"  she  said  to  herself;  "  how  earnest,  how 
real !  What  a  king  among  men  !  And  yet  what  hope  is  there 
for  him  in  life?  what  prospect  of  escape  from  this  dull  drudgery, 
which  he  must  surely  sicken  of,  sooner  or  later  P  He  has  no 
interest  that  can  advance  him  in  the  Church — I  have  heard 
him  say  that — so  his  preferment  will  most  likely  be  of  tho 
slowest.  I  hardly  wonder  that  he  sometimes  thinks  of  turning 
missionary.  Better  to  be  something — to  win  some  kind  of  name 
in  the  centre  of  Africa,  or  among  the  South-Sea  Islands— than 
to  be  buried  alive  in  such  a  place  as  Ilawleigh.     And  if  he  ever 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  78 

were  to  change  liis  mind  and  marry,  what  a  brilliant  career  for 
his  wife ! "  She  laughed  bitterly  at  the  thought.  "  How  I  ])ity 
that  poor  demented  soul,  whoever  she  may  be !  And  yet  lie 
seems  to  consider  this  kind  of  life  perfect,  and  that  one  might  be 
good  and  great;  goodness  and  greatness  consisting  in  perpetual 
district-visiting,  uidimited  plain  needlework  for  the  Dorcas 
society,  unfailing  attendance  at  early  services — all  the  dull,  dull 
routine  of  a  Christian  life.  Of  the  two  careers,  I  should  certainfy 
prefer  Africa ! " 

Thus  did  she  argue  with  herself,  this  rebellious  soul,  who 
coidd  not  understand  that  life  was  intended  to  afford  her  any- 
thing but  pleasure,  the  kind  of  pleasure  her  earthly  nature 
pined  for — operas,  and  concerts,  and  horses  and  carriages,  and 
foreign  travel.  She  roamed  the  orchard  for  nearly  an  hour, 
meditating  upon  Malcolm  Forde,  his  character,  his  aspirations, 
his  prospects,  and  that  hypothetical  foolish  woman  who  might  bo 
rash  enough  to  accept  him  for  her  husband ;  and  then  went  back 
to  the  drawing-room,  to  be  sharply  interrogated  by  aunt  Chevenix. 

"My 'dear  Elizabeth,  what  a  dishevelled  creature  you  have 
made  yourself  I"  exclaimed  that  lady,  lookiir^  with  disfavour  at 
Lizzie's  loosened  hair  and  disordered  neck  riubou.  The  young 
ladies  of  Eaton-place  rarely  exposed  themselves  to  the  wind, 
except  at  Brighton  in  November,  when  a  certain  license  might 
be  permitted. 

"  I  have  been  walking  in  the  orchard,  aunt.  It's  rather  blowy 
on  that  side  of  the  house." 

"  I  hope  you  have  not  had  that  Mr.  Forde  with  you  all  this 
time." 

"  Mr.  Forde  has  been  gone  nearly  an  hour.  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  call  him  that  Mr.  Forde.  You  may  not  mean  any- 
thing by  it,  but  it  sounds  unpleasant." 

*'  But  I  do  mean  something  by  it,"  replied  aunt  Chevenix, 
fanning  herself  more  vehemently  than  usual.  "I  mean  that 
your  Mr.  Eorde  is  a  most  arrogant,  disagreeable,  under-bred 
person  to  presume  to  dictate  to  my  niece — to  over-ride  my 
authority  before  my  very  face !  The  man  is  evidently  utterly 
unaccustomed  to  good  society." 

"  You  might  have  said  that  of  St.  Peter  or  St.  Paul,  aunt,'' 
replied  Ehzabeth  in  her  coolest  manner;  "  neither  of  those  be- 
longed to  the  Eaton-place  section  of  society.  But  Mr.  Forde  is 
a  man  of  good  family,  and  was  in  a  crack  cavalry  regiment  be- 
fore he  entered  the  Church.    So  you  are  out  in  your  reckoning." 

"  A  crack  regiment !"  echoed  the  matron.  "Elizabeth,  yon 
have  acquired  a  most  horrible  mode  of  expression.  Perhaps  you 
have  learnt  that  from  Mr.  Forde,  as  well  as  a  new  version  of 
your  duty  to  your  relations.  If  ever  that  man  was  in  a  cavalry 
regiment,  I  should  think  it  must  have  been  in  the  canacity  of 


74  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

rough-rider.  What  a  man-mountain  the  creature  is,  too!  I 
should  hardly  have  thought  any  sane  bishop  would  have  ordained 
such  a  giant.  There  ought  really  to  be  a  standard  height  for 
the  Church  as  well  as  for  the  army,  excluding  pigmies  and  giants. 
I  never  beheld  a  man  so  opposite  to  one's  ideal  of  a  curate." 

"  O,  of  course,"  cried  Elizabeth  impatiently.  "  Your  ideal 
curate  is  a  slim  simpering  thing  with  white  hands — a  bandbox- 
ical  being,  talking  solemn  small-talk  like  a  fashionable  doctor — 
a  kettledrumish-man,  always  dropping  in  at  afternoon  tea.  We 
have  had  three  of  that  species,  varying  only  in  detail.  Thank 
heaven  Malcolm  Forde  is  something  better  than  that." 

"  I  cannot  perceive  that  you  have  any  occasion  to  feel  grate- 
ful to  Providence  upon  the  subject  of  Mr.  Forde's  character  and 
attributes,  let  them  be  what  they  may,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix; 
"  and  I  consider  that  familiar  mention  of  your  father's  curate — 
a  paid  servant  remember,  like  a  governess  or  a  cook — to  the  last 
degree  indecorous." 

"  But  I  do  thank  heaven  for  him,"  cried  Elizabeth  recklessly. 
"  He  is  my  friend  and  counsellor, — the  only  man  I  ever  looked 
up  to '" 

"  Tou  appear  to  forget  that  you  have  a  father,"  murmured 
Mrs.  Chevenix,  sitting  Like  a  statue,  with  her  closed  fan  laid 
across  her  breast,  in  a  stand-at-ease  manner. 

"  I  don't  forget  anything  of  the  kind ;  but  I  never  looked  up 
to  Mm.  It  isn't  in  human  nature  to  revei'ence  one's  father.  One 
is  behind  the  scenes  of  his  life,  you  see.  One  knows  all  his 
little  impatiences,  his  unspiritual  views  on  the  subject  of  dinner, 
his  intolerance  of  crumpled  roseleaves  in  his  domestic  arrange- 
ments. Papa  is  a  dear  old  thing,  but  he  is  of  the  earth,  earthy. 
Mr.  Forde  is  of  another  quality, — spiritual,  earnest,  self- 
sacrificing,  somewhat  arbitrary,  perhaps,  in  the  consciousness 
of  his  own  strength,  but  gentle  even  when  he  commands ;  capable 
of  a  heroic  life  which  my  poor  feeble  brain  cannot  even 
imagine ;  his  eager  spirit  even  now  yearning  to  carry  God's 
truth  to  some  wretched  people  buried  in  creation's  primeval 
gloom ;  ready  to  die  a  martyr  in  some  nameless  Isle  of  the 
Pacific,  in  some  unknown  desert  in  Central  Africa.  He  is  my 
modern  St.  Paul,  and  I  reverence  him." 

Elizabeth  indulged  herself  with  this  small  tirade  half  in 
earnest,  half  in  a  mocking  spirit,  amusing  herself  with  the 
discomfiture  of  aunt  Chevenix,  who  sat  staring  at  her  in 
speechless  horror. 

"  The  girl  is  stark  mad !  "  gasped  the  matron,  with  a  famt 
flutter  of  her  fan,  slowly  recovering  speech  and  motion.  "  Has 
this  sort  of  thing  been  going  on  long,  Diana?  " 

"Well,  not  quite  so  bad  as  this,"  rephed  Diana;  "but  I 
don't  think  Lizzie  has  been  Quite  herself  since  she  took  ud  the 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  75 

rlistrict-visiting.  She  has  left  off  wearing  nice  gloves,  and 
•liessing  for  dinner,  and  behaving  in  a  general  way  like  a 
CJiristian." 

"  Has  she,  indeed  ?  "  said  aunt  Chevenix ;  "  then  the  district- 
visiting  must  be  put  a  stop  to  at  once  and  for  ever,  or  it  will 
leave  her  stranded  high  and  dry  on  the  barren  shore  of  old- 
maidism.  You  may  be  a  very  pretty  girl,  Elizabeth  Lattrell — 
I  dare  say  you  know  you  are  tolerably  good-looking,  so  there's 
no  use  in  my  pretending  you  are  not — but  if  once  you  take  up 
ultra-religious  views,  visiting  the  poor,  and  all  that  kind  of 
thing,  I  wash  my  hands  of  you.  I  had  hoped  to  see  you  make 
a  brilliant  mari-iage ;  indeed  I  have  heard  you  talk  somewhat 
over-confidently  of  your  carriage,  your  opera-box,  your  town 
house  and  country  seat.  But  from  what  I  hear  to-day, 
I  conclude  your  highest  ambition  is  to  marry  this  preposterous 
curate— who  looks  a  great  deal  more  like  a  brigand  chief,  by 
the  way — and  devote  your  future  existence  to  Sunday-school 
teaching  and  tea-meetings." 

Elizabeth  stood  tali  and  straight  before  her  accuser,  with 
clasped  hands  resting  on  the  back  of  a  pric-dieu  chair,  exactly 
as  she  had  stood  while  she  delivered  her  small  rhapsody  about 
Mr.  Forde,  stately  and  spiritual-looking  as  Joan  of  Are 
inspired  by  her  "  voices." 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  might  be  a  woman's  loftiest  ambition 
to  mate  with  Malcolm  Forde,"  she  said  slowly,  with  a  tender 
dreamy  look  in  her  eyes ;  and  then,  before  the  dragon  could 
remonstrate,  she  went  on  with  a  sudden  change  of  manner, 
"  Don't  be  alarmed,  auntie ;  I  am  not  going  to  hold  the  world 
well  lost  for  love.  I  mean  to  have  my  opera-box,  if  it  ever 
comes  begging  this  way,  and  to  give  great  dinners,  with  cabinet 
ministers  and  foreign  ambassadors  for  my  guests,  and  to  be 
mistress  of  a  country  seat  or  two,  and  do  wonderful  things 
at  elections,  and  to  be  stared  at  at  country  race-meetings,  and 
to  tread  in  that  exalted  path  in  which  you  would  desire  to  train 
my  ignorant  footstep. 

Mrs.  Chevenix  gave  a  half-despairing  sigh. 

"  You  are  a  most  incomprehensible  girl,"  she  said,  "and  give 
me  more  trouble  of  mind  than  your  three  sisters  put  together,. 
But  I  do  hope  that  you  will  keep  clear  of  any  entanglement 
with  that  tall  curate,  a  dangerous  man  I  am  convinced;  any 
Hirtation  of  that  kind  would  inevitably  compromise  you  in  the 
future.  As  to  cabinet  dinners  and  country  seats,  such 
marriages  as  you  talk  of  are  extremely  rare  nowadays,  and 
for  »■  Devonshire  parson's  daughter  to  make  such  a  match 
would  be  a  kind  of  miracle,  lint  with  your  advantages  you 
ought  certainly  to  marry  well ;  and  it  is  better  to  look  too  high 
than  too  low.     A  season  in  London  might  do  wonders." 


76  Strangers  and  Pilgrimi. 

This  London  season  was  the  shining  bait  which  Mrg. 
Chevenix  was  wont  to  dangle  before  the  eyes  of  her  nieces,  and 
by  virtue  of  which  she  obtained  their  submission  to  her 
amiable  caprices  when  the  more  remote  advantage  of  in- 
heritance might  have  failed  to  influence  them.  Gertrude  and 
Diana  had  enjoyed  each  her  season,  and  had  not  profited 
thereby  in  any  substantial  manner.  They  had  been  "  much 
admired,"  Mrs.  Chevenix  declared  with  an  approving  air, 
especially  Diana,  as  the  livelier  of  the  two;  but  admiration  had 
not  taken  that  definite  form  for  which  the  soul  of  the  match- 
maker longeth. 

"There  must  be  something  wanting,"  Mrs.  Chevenix  said 
pensively,  in  moments  of  confidence.  "  I  find  that  something 
wanting  in  most  of  the  girls  of  the  present  day.  Alfred 
Chevenix  proposed  to  me  in  my  first  season.  I  was  a 
thoughtless  thing  just  emerged  from  the  nursery,  and  his 
was  not  my  only  olfer.  But  my  nieces  made  a  very  different 
effect.  Young  men  were  attentive  to  them — Sir  Harold  Haw- 
buck even  seemed  struck  with  Diana — but  nothing  came  of  it. 
There  must  be  a  deficiency  in  something.  Gertrude  is  too 
serious,  Diana  a  shade  too  flippant.  It  is  manner,  my  dear, 
manner,  in  which  the  rising  generation  is  wanting." 

"A  season  in  town,"  cried  Elizabeth,  her  dark  eyes  sparkling, 
her  head  lifted  with  a  superb  arrogance,  and  all  thought  of 
Malcolm  Forde  and  the  life  spiritual  for  the  moment  banished. 
"Yes,  it  is  my  turn,  is  it  not,  auntie?  and  I  think  it  is  time  I 
came  out.  Who  knows  how  soon  I  may  begin  to  lose  what- 
ever good  looks  I  now  possess .5^  I  am  of  a  nervous  temper; 
impressionable,  as  you  suggested  just  now.  I  have  a  knack  of 
sleeping  badly  when  my  mind  is  full  of  a  subject,  and  excite- 
ment of  any  kind  spoils  my  appetite.  Even  the  idea  of  a  new 
bonnet  will  keep  me  awake.  I  lie  tossing  from  side  to  side  all 
night  trying  to  determ$ie  whether  it  shall  be  pink  or  blue. 
Living  at  this  rate,  I  rnay  be  a  positive  fright  before  I  am 
twenty;  no  complexion  can  stand  against  such  wear  and  tear." 

"  You  have  been  allowed  to  grow  up  with  a  sadly  un- 
disciplined mind,  my  poor  child,"  Mrs.  Chevenix  said  sen- 
tentiously.  "If  your  papa  had  engaged  a  competent  governess, 
a  person  who  had  lived  in  superior  families,  and  was 
experienced  in  the  training  of  the  human  mind  and  the  figure 
— your  waist  measures  two  inches  more  than  it  ought  to  at 
your  age — his  d:iughters  would  have  done  him  much  greater 
credit.  But  it  was  only  like  my  brother  Wilniot  to  grudge  the 
expenditure  cf  sixty  guineas  a  year  for  a  proper  instructress  of 
his  daughters,  while  frittering  away  hundreds  on  his  pauper 
(iarishioners." 
"Now,  tha+  is  one  of  the  tbJies  for   which  I   do  reverenc« 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  77 

papa,"  cried  Elizabeth  with  energy.  "  Thank  heaven,  neither 
our  minds  nor  our  bodies  have  been  trained  by  a  professional 
trainer.  Imagine  growing  like  a  fruit  tree  nailed  against 
a  -wall;  every  spontaneous  outshoot  of  one's  character  cut 
back,  every  impulse  pruned  away  as  a  non-fruit-beuring 
branch !  1  do  bless  papa  with  all  my  free  untutored  soul 
for  having  spared  us  that.  But  don't  let  us  quarrel  about 
details,  dear  auntie.  Give  me  my  season  in  London,  and 
see  what  I  will  do.  I  languish  for  my  opera-box  and  barouche, 
and  the  kind  of  life  one  reads  of  in  Mrs.  Gore's  novels."  _ 

•'  You  shall  spend  next  May  and  June  with  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Chevenix  with  another  plaintive  sigh.  "  It  will  be  hard  work 
going  over  all  the  same  ground  again  which  I  went  over  for 
Gerty  and  Di,  but  the  result  may  be  more  brilliant." 

"  Couldn't  you  manage  to  turn  me  off  at  the  same  time, 
auntie  ?  "  demanded  Blanche  pertly. 

"I  am  sorry  Gertrude  and  I  were  not  fortunate  enough  to 
receive  proposals  from  dukes  or  merchant  princes,"  said  Diana, 
whose  aristocratic  features  had  flushed  angrily  at  her  aunt's 
implied  complaint.  "  Perhaps  we  might  have  been  luckier 
if  we  had  met  more  people  of  that  kind.  But  of  course  Lizzie 
will  do  wonders.  She  reminds  me  of  Mirabeau's  remark  about 
Kobespierre ;  she  will  do  great  things,  because  she  believes  in 
herself." 

Elizabeth  was  prompt  to  respond  to  this  attack ;  and  so,  with 
email  sisterly  bickerings,  the  conversation  ended. 


CHAPTER  YII 

**  Je  ne  voudrais  pas,  si  j'etais  Julie, 
N'etre  que  jolie 
Avec  ma  beaute. 
Jusqu'au  bout  des  doigts  je  serais  duchesse. 
Comme  ma  ricbesse 
J'aurais  ma  fierte." 

Elizabeth,  having  in  a  manner  pledged  herself  to  a  career  of 
<vorldly-mindeduess,  to  begin  in  the  ensuing  spring,  deemed 
herself  at  uberty  to  follow  her  own  inchnatious  in  the  interim, 
and  these  inclinations  pointed  to  the  kind  of  life  which  Malcolm 
Eorde  wished  her  to  lead.  She  went  back  to  her  district- 
work  on  the  morning  after  the  Curate's  visit ;  put  on  her 
Puritan  hat  and  sober  gray  carmelite  gown,  which  seemed  to 
her  mind  the  whole  armour  of  righteousness,  and  went  back  to 
her  people.  She  was  welcomed  back  with  an  affection  that  at  once 


78  Strangers  and  Pilgrima. 

surprised  and  touched  her.  She  had  done  so  little  for  them— 
only  treating  them  M'd  thinking  of  them  as  creatures  of  the 
same  nature  as  herself — and  yet  they  were  so  grateful,  and  so 
fond  of  her. 

So  Elizabeth  went  back  to  what  Gertrude  called  her  "  duties," 
and  the  soul  of  aunt  Chevenix  was  heavy  within  her.  That 
lady  had  cherished  high  hopes  upon  the  subject  of  this  lovely 
niece  of  hers.  A  perfect  beauty  in  a  family  is  a  fortune  in 
imbryo.  There  was  no  knowing  what  transcendent  heights 
upon  the  vast  mountain  range  of  "  good  society  "  such  a  girl  as 
Elizabeth  might  scale,  dragging  hrr  kith  and  kin  upwards  with 
her ;  i^rovided  she  were  but  plastic  iu  the  hands  of  good  advisers. 
To  scheme,  to  plan,  to  diplomatise,  were  natural  operations  of 
the  Chevenix  mind.  A  childless  widow,  with  a  comfortable  in- 
come and  a  somewhat  extended  circle  of  acquaintance,  could 
hardly  spend  all  her  existence  with  no  more  mental  pabulum 
than  a  fan  and  a  scent-bottle,  and  the  trivial  amenities  of  i^olite 
life.  Mrs.  Chevenix's  intellect  must  have  lapsed  into  stagnation 
but  for  the  agreeable  employment  afforded  by  social  diplomacy. 
She  knew  everything  about  everybody ;  kept  a  mental  ledger 
in  which  she  registered  all  the  little  weaknesses  of  her  ac- 
quaintance ;  and  had  even  a  journal  wherein  a  good  deal  of 
genteel  scandal  was  booked  in  pen  and  ink.  But  although  by 
710  means  p.^sentially  good-natured,  she  was  not  a  mischief- 
maker,  and  1,0  unfriendly  criticism  or  lady-like  scandal  had  ever 
been  brought  home  to  her.  She  was,  on  the  other  hand, 
renowned  as  a  peace-maker :  and  if  she  had  a  fault,  it  was  a 
species  of  amiable  officiousness,  which  some  of  her  acquaintance 
were  inclined  inwardly  to  resent.  Malign  tongues  had  called 
Mrs.  Chevenix  a  busybody;  but  in  the  general  opinion  she  was 
a  lady  of  vivacious  and  agreeable  manners,  who  gave  snug 
little  dinners,  and  elegant  little  suppers  after  concerts  and 
operas ;  and  was  a  fine  figure  for  garden  parties,  or  a  spare  seat 
at  the  dinner- table ;  a  lady  who  had  done  some  good  service  in 
the  way  of  match-making,  and  who  exercised  considerable  in- 
fluence over  the  minds  of  divers  young  matrons  whom  she  had 
assisted  in  the  achievement  of  their  matrimonial  successes. 

It  seemed  a  hard  thing  that,  after  having  been  so  useful  an 
ally  to  various  damsels  who  were  only  the  protegees  of  the 
hour,  ]\Irs.  Chevenix's  diplomatic  efforts  ic  relation  to  her  own 
nieces  should  result  iu  utter  failure.  She  had  never  hoped  very 
much  from  Gertrude,  who  had  that  air  of  being  too  good  for 
this  woi'ld,  which  of  all  things  is  the  most  rejDellent  to  sinful 
man.  Still,  even  for  Gertrude  Mrs.  Chevenix  had  done  her  best, 
bravely,  and  with  the  sublime  patience  engendered  by  profound 
axperience  of  this  mundane  sphere,  its  difficulties  and  disap- 
pointments.     She  had  exhibited  her  seriously-minded  niece  at 


Stranrjtrt  and  Pilgrimg.  79 

charity  bazaars,  at  dejeuners  given  after  the  inauguration  of 
church  organs,  at  choir  festivals,  and  even — with  a  nolile  sacri- 
fice of  personal   inclination— at    Sunday-school   tea-drinkinga, 
orphanage  fetes,  and  other  assemblages  of  what  this  worldly- 
minded  matron  called  the  goody-goody  school.    She  had  angled 
for  popular  preachers,  for  rectors  and  vicars,  the  value  of  whose 
benefices  she  had  looked  up  in  the  Clergy-list ;  but  she  had 
cast  her  lines  in  vain.     The  popular  i^reachers,  crying  from 
their  pulpits  that  all  is  vanity,  were  yet  caught,  moth-like,  by  the 
flame  of  worldly  beauties,  and  left  Gertrude  to  console  herself 
with  the  calm  contemi^lation  of  her  own  virtues,  and  the  con- 
viction that  they  were  somewhat  too  lofty  for  the  appreciation 
of  vulgar  clay.     It  had  happened  thus,  that  with  the  advent  of 
Malcolm  Fordc,  the  eldest  Miss  Luttrell  fancied  she  had  at  last 
met  the  elect  and  privileged  individual  predestined  to  sympa- 
thise with,  and  understand  her;  the  man  upon  whose  broad 
forehead  she  at  once  recognised  the  apostolic  grace,  and  who, 
she  fondly  hoped,  would  hail  in  her  the  typical  maiden  of  the 
church  primitive  and  undetiled,  the  Dorcas  or  Lydia  of  modern 
civilisation.     It  had  been  a  somewhat  bitter   disappointment, 
therefore,  to  discover  that  Mr.  Forde,  although  prompt  with  the 
bestowal  of  his  confidence  and  friendship,  was  very  slow  to 
exhibit;  any  token  of  a  warmer  regard.      Surely  he,  so  different 
in  every  attribute  from  all  former  curates,  was  not  going  to 
resemble  them  in  their  foolish  worship  at  the  shrine  of  Eliza- 
beth.     So  long  as  this  damsel  had  stuck  to  her  accustomed  line 
of  worldliness,  Gertrude  had  scarcely  trembled.     But  when  her 
younger  sister  all  of  a  sudden  subdued  her  somewhat  reckless 
spirit,  and  took  to  district-visiting,  Miss  Luttrell's  heart  sank 
within  her.     She  had  no  belief  in  the  reality  of  this  conversion. 
It  was  a  glaring  and  bold-faced  attempt  at  the  Curate's  subju- 
gation, to  bend  that  stiff  neck  beneath  the  yoke  which  had  been 
worn  so  patiently  by  the  flute-playing,  verse-quoting  Levites  of 
the  past.     And  Gertrude  did  not  hesitate  to  express  herself  in 
somewhat  bitter  phrases  to  that  efi'ect. 

When  Diana  came  to  Eaton-place  for  the  season,  the  hopes  of 
aunt  Chevenix  rose  higher.  The  second  Miss  Luttrell  was 
decidedly  handsome,  in  the  aquiline-nosed  style,  and  was  a? 
decidedly  stylish ;  wore  her  countiy-made  gowns  with  an  air  ■ 
which  made  them  pass  for  the  handicraft  of  a  West-end  mantua- 
maker;  dressed  her  own  hair  with  a  skill  which  would  have 
done  credit  to  an  experienced  lady's  maid ;  and  seemed  alto- 
gether an  advantageous  young  person  for  whom  to  labour.  Yet 
Diana's  season,  though  brightened  by  many  a  hopeful  ray,  had 
been  barren  of  results.  Perhaps  these  girls  in  their  aunt's 
bouse  were  too  obviously  "on  view."  Mrs.  Chevenix's  renown 
\s  a  match-maker  may  have  g^ne  against  them  ;  her  past  sue* 


80  Strangers  and  JPilgnmfi. 

cesses  may  have  induced  this  present  failure.  And  if  Gertrude 
erred  on  the  side  of  piety,  Diana  possibly  went  a  thought  too 
far  in  the  matter  of  worldliness.  She  was  clever  and  imitative, 
and  caught  up  the  manners  of  more  experienced  damsels  with 
a  readiness  that  was  perhaps  too  ready.  She  had  perhaps  a 
trifle  too  much  confidence  in  herself;  too  much  of  the  veni,  vidi, 
vici  style;  went  into  battle  with  "An  opera-box  and  a  house  in 
Hyde-park-gardens "  blazoned  on  her  banner ;  and  after  suf- 
fering the  fitful  fever  of  high  hopes  that  alternate  with  blank 
despair,  Diana  was  fain  to  go  back  to  Hawleigh  Yicarage  with- 
out being  able  to  boast  of  any  definite  offer. 

But  with  Elizabeth,  Mrs.  Chevenix  told  herself,  things  would 
be  uttei'ly  different.  She  possessed  that  rare  beauty  which 
always  commands  attention.  She  was  as  perfect  in  her  line  as 
those  heaven-born  winners  of  the  Derby,  Oo.ks,  and  Leger, 
which,  by  their  performances  as  two-year-olds,  proclaim  them- 
selves at  once  the  conquerors  of  the  coming  year.  Fairly  good- 
looking  girls  were  abundant  enough  every  season,  just  as  fairly 
good  horses  abound  at  every  sale  of  yearlings  throughout  the 
sporting  year;  but  thei-e  was  as  much  difference  between 
Elizabeth  Luttrell  and  the  common  herd  of  pi-etty  girls — all 
more  or  less  dependent  on  the  style  of  their  bonnets,  or  the 
dressing  of  their  hair  for  their  good  looks — as  between  the  fifty- 
guinea  colt,  whose  good  points  excite  vague  hopes  of  future  merit 
in  the  breast  of  the  speculative  buyer,  and  a  lordling  of  a  crack 
stable,  with  a  pedigree  half  a  yard  long,  knocked  down  for  two  or 
three  thousand  guineas  to  some  magnate  of  the  turf,  amidst  the 
applause  of  the  auction-yard. 

"  Elizabeth  cannot  fail  to  marry  well,  unless  she  behaves  like 
an  idiot,  and  throws  herself  away  upon  some  pauper  curate," 
said  Mrs.  Chevenix  :  "  there  is  no  position  to  which  a  girl  with 
her  advantages  may  not  aspire — and  I  shall  make  it  my 
business  so  give  her  plenty  of  opportunities — unless  she  is  ob- 
stinately bent  upon  standing  in  her  own  light.  This  district- 
visiting  business  must  be  put  a  stop  to  immediately;  it  is 
nothing  more  than  an  excuse  for  flirting  with  that  tall  curate." 

Mrs.  Chevenix  was  not  slow  to  wtu-n  her  brother,  the  Vicar, 
of  this  peril  which  menaced  his  handsomest  daughter;  but  he 
■who  was  the  easiest-tempered  and  least-designing  of  mankind, 
received  her  information  with  a  provoking  coolness. 

"  I  really  can't  see  how  I  could  object  to  Lizzie's  visiting  the 
poor,"  he  said.  "  It  has  always  been  a  trouble  to  me  that  my 
daughters,  with  the  excejition  of  Gertrude,  have  done  so  little. 
If  Eorde  has  brought  about  a  better  state  of  things  in  this 
matter,  as  he  has  in  a  good  deal  besides,  I  don't  see  that  I  can 
complain  of  the  improvement  because  it  is  his  doing.  And  I 
don't  think  you  need  alarm  yourself  with  regard  to  any  danger 


Strangers  and  Pilf/rims.  81 

of  love-making  or  matrimony  between  those  two.  Forde  has 
somewhat  advanced  notions,  and  doesn't  approve  of  a  jjriest 
marrying.  He  has  almost  said  as  much  in  the  pulpit,  and  I 
think  the  Hawleigh  girls  have  left  off  setting  their  caps  at  him." 

"Men  are  not  always  constant  in  their  opinions,"  said  Mrs, 
Chevenix.  "  I  wouldn't  give  much  for  any  declaration  Mr. 
I'orde  may  have  made  in  the  pulpit.  It  was  very  bad  taste  in 
iiim  to  advance  any  opinion  of  that  kind,  I  think,  when  hia 
vi(-ar  is  a  married  man  and  the  fatlier  of  a  family." 

"  Foi-de  belongs  to  the  new  school,"  replied  Mr.  Luttrell,  with 
liis  good-natured  air.  "Perhaps  he  sometimes  sails  a  trifle  too 
tii'nr  the  wind  in  the  matter  of  asceticism ;  but  he's  the  best 
curate  I  ever  had." 

•■  Why  doesn't  he  go  over  to  Rome,  and  have  done  with  it," 
exclaimed  aunt  Chevenix  angrily ;  "  I  have  no  patience  with 
Biich  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing.  And  I  have  no  patience  with 
f  ou,  Wilmot,  when  I  see  your  handsomest  daughter  throwing 
herself  away  before  your  eyes." 

"But  I  don't  see  anything  of  the  kind,  Maria,"  said  the 
Vicar,  gently  rolling  his  fingers  round  a  cigar  which  he  meant 
to  smoke  in  the  orchard  as  soon  as  he  could  escape  from  his  tor- 
mentor. "  As  to  playing  the  spy  upon  my  children — watching 
their  flirtations  with  Jones,  or  speculating  upon  their  penchant 
for  Robinson,  I  think  you  ought  to  know  by  this  time  that  I  am 
the  very  last  of  men  to  do  anything  of  that  kind." 

"Which  means  in  plain  English  that  you  are  too  selfish  and 
too  indifferent  to  trouble  yourself  about  the  fate  of  your 
daughters.  You  ought  to  have  had  sons,  Wilmot;  young 
scapegraces,  who  would  have  ruined  you  with  university  debts, 
or  gone  on  the  turf  and  dragged  your  name  through  the  mire  in 
that  way." 

"  I  have  not  been  blessed  with  sons,"  murmured  Mr.  Luttrell 
m  his  laziest  tone.  "  If  I  had  been  favoured  in  that  way,  so  soon 
83  they  arrived  at  an  eligible  age,  I  should  have  exported  them. 
I  should  have  obtained  a  government  grant  of  land  in  Australia 
or  British  Columbia,  and  planted  them  out.  I  consider  emigra* 
tion  the  natural  channel  for  the  disposal  of  surplus  sons." 

"  You  ought  never  to  have  married,  Wilmot.  You  ought  to 
have  been  one  of  those  dreadful  abbots  one  reads  of,  who  had 
trout-streams  i-unniug  through  their  kitchens,  and  devoted  ali 
the  strength  of  their  minds  to  eating  and  drinking,  and  actually 
wallowed  in  venison  and  larded  capons." 

"  Those  ancient  abbots  had  by  no  means  a  bad  time  of  it,  my 
dear,"  repUed  the  Vicar,  with  supreme  good  humour,  "  and  they 
had  plenty  of  broken  victuals  to  feed  their  poor  with,  which  I 
have  not." 

*'  I  want  to  know  what  you  are  going  to  do  about  Elizabeth," 


82  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

said  Mrs.  Chevenix,  rapping  the  table  with  her  fan,  and  return* 
ing  to  the  charge  in  a  determined  manner. 

"  What  I  am  going  to  do  about  EUzabeth,  my  love  ?  Simply 
nothing.  Would  you  have  me  lock  her  up  in  the  Norman  lower, 
like  a  princess  in  a  fairy  tale,  so  that  she  should  not  behold 
the  face  of  man  till  I  chose  to  introduce  her  to  a  husband  of 
my  own  selection?  All  the  legendary  lore  we  possess  tends  to 
show  the  futility  of  that  sort  of  domestic  tryanny.  I  consider 
your  apprehensions  altogether  premature  and  groundless ;  but 
if  it  is  Lizzie's  destiny  to  marry  Malcolm  Forde,  I  shall  not  in- 
terfere. He  is  a  very  good  fellow,  and  he  has  some  private 
means,  sufficient  at  any  raia  for  the  maintenance  of  a  wife- 
what  more  could  I  want  ?  " 

"  And  you  would  sacrifice  such  a  girl  as  Elizabeth  to  a  Scotc\ 
curate,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix  with  the  calmness  of  despair.  "  1 
always  thought  that  you  were  the  most  short-sighted  of  mortals; 
but  I  did  not  believe  you  capable  of  such  egregious  folly  as  thia. 
That  girl  might  be  a  duchess." 

"  Find  me  a  duke,  my  dear  Maria,  and  I  will  not  object  to 
him  for  my  son-in-law." 

Mrs.  Chevenix  sighed,  and  shook  her  head  with  a  despondent 
air ;  and  Mr.  Luttrell  strolled  or.t  to  the  orchard,  leaving  her  to 
bewail  his  folly  in  a  confidential  converse  with  Diana,  who  in  a 
manner  represented  the  worldly  wisdom  of  the  family, 

"  I  wouldn't  make  such  a  fuss  about  Lizzie,  if  I  were  you, 
auntie,"  that  young  lady  remarked  somewhat  coolly.  •'  I  never 
knew  a  girl  about  whom  her  people  made  too  much  fuss,  setting 
her  up  as  a  beauty,  and  so  on,  do  anything  wonderful  in  the  way 
of  marriage." 

Like  the  eyes  of  the  lynx,  in  his  matchless  strength  of  vision, 
were  the  eyes  of  aunt  Chevenix  for  any  sentimental  converse 
between  Elizabeth  and  Mr.  Forde.  It  tortured  her  to  know 
that  they  must  needs  have  many  opportunities  of  meeting  out- 
side the  range  of  that  keen  vision — chance  encounters  in  the 
cottages  of  the  poor,  or  in  the  obscure  lanes  and  alleys  that 
fringed  the  chief  street  of  Hawleigh.  Vainly  had  she  en- 
deavoured to  cajole  her  niece  into  the  abandonment  of  those 
duties  she  had  newly  resumed.  All  her  arguments,  her  flit- 
teries,  her  ridicule,  her  little  offerings  of  ribbons  and  liices  aad 
small  trinketry,  were  wasted.  After  that  visit  of  Malcolm 
Forde'G  the  girl  was  constant  to  her  work. 

"  It  is  such  a  happiness  to  feel  that  I  can  be  of  some  use 
in  the  world,  auntie,"  she  said,  unconsciously  repeating  Mr. 
Forde's  very  words ;  "  and  if  you  had  seen  how  pleased  tliose 
poor  souls  were  to  see  me  amongst  them  again,  yon  would 
hardly  wonder  at  my  liking  the  work." 


Strangers  and  Pilgritiis.  6^ 

"  A  tribe  of  sycopliants  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chevenix  ctai- 
temptuously.  "  I  should  like  to  know  what  value  they'd  attach 
to  your  visits,  or  how  much  civility  they'd  show  you,  if  thero 
were  not  tea  and  sugar,  and  coals  and  blankets  in  the  back- 
ground. And  I  should  like  io  know  how  long  you'd  stick 
to  your  work  if  Mr.  Forde  had  left  Hawleigh  ?  " 

Elizabeth  flamed  crimson  at  this  accusation,  but  was  not  of 
a  temper  to  be  silenced  by  a  hundred  Chevenixes. 

"  Perhaps  I  might  not  like  the  work  without  his  approval," 
she  said  defiantly  ;  "  but  I  hope  I  should  go  on  with  it  all  the 
same.  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  to  confess  that  his  influence  first 
set  me  thinking ;  that  it  was  to  please  him  I  first  tried  to  be 
good." 

"  I  am  not.  an  ultra-rehgious  person,  Elizabeth  ;  but  I  should 
call  that  setting  the  creature  above  the  Creator,"  said  ]\trs. 
Chevenix  severely.  To  which  Lizzie  muttered  something  that 
sounded  like  "  Bosh." 

"  What  else  is  there  for  me  to  do,  I  should  like  to  know,"  the 
girl  demanded  contemptuously,  after  an  interval  of  silence, 
Mrs.  Chevenix  having  retired  within  herself  in  a  dignified 
sulkiness.  "  Is  there  any  amusement,  or  any  excitement,^  or 
any  distraction  in  our  lite  in  this  place  to  hinder  my  devoting 
myself  to  these  people?" 

This  speech  was  somewhat  reassuring  to  Mrs.  Chevenix  :  she 
inferred  therefrom  that  if  Elizabeth  had  had  anything  more 
agreeable  to  do,  she  would  not  have  become  a  district-visitor. 

"  You  have  a  fine  voice,  which  you  might  cultivate  to  your 
future  profit,"  she  said ;  "  a  girl  who  sings  really  well  is  likely 
to  make  a  great  success  in  society." 

"  I  understand.  One  gets  asked  out  to  entertain  other 
people's  friends;  and  one  is  not  paid  like  a  professional  singer. 
I  like  music  well  enough,  aunt;  but  you  can't  imagine  I  could 
spend  half  my  existence  in  shrieking  solfeggi,  even  if  papa 
would  tolerate  the  noise.  I  am  sure,  what  with  one  any 
another  of  us,  the  piano  is  jingling  and  clattering  all  day,  as_  it 
is.  Papa  and  the  servants  must  execrate  the  sound  of  it: 
Blanche,  with  her  etudes  de  velocite,  and  Di  with  her  ever- 
lasting fugues  and  sonatas— it's  something  abominable." 

"  You  might  have  a  piano  in  your  tower  bedroom,  ray  dear. 
I  wouldn't  mind  making  yon  a  present  of  a  cottage." 

"  Thanks,  auntie.  Let  it  be  a  real  cottage,  then,  instead  of  a 
cottage  piano— against  I  set  up  that  love-iu-a-cottage  you  seem 
so  much  afraid  of." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Elizabeth,  I  can  never  make  you  out,"  said 
Mrs.  Chevenix,  plaintively.  "Sometimes  I  think  you  are  a 
thoroughly  sensible  girl,  and  at  other  times  you  really  appear 
capable  of  any  absurdity." 


84  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  auntie.  It  rather  amuses  me  to  see 
your  awe-stricken  look  when  I  say  anything  particularly  wild. 
But  you  need  have  no  misgivings  about  me.  I  am  worldly- 
minded  to  the  tips  of  my  nails,  as  the  French  say ;  and  I 
am  perfectly  aware  that  I  am  rather  good-looking,  and  ought 
to  make  an  advantageous  marriage ;  only  the  eligible  suitor  is 
a  long  time  appearing.  Perhaps  I  shall  meet  him  next  spring 
in  Eaton-place.  As  to  Mr.  Forde,  he  is  quite  out  of  the 
question.  I  know  all  about  his  past  life,  and  know  that  he 
is  a  confirmed  bachelor." 

"  Your  confirmed  bachelors  are  a  very  dangerous  race, 
Elizabeth,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix  sententiously,  "  They  con- 
trive to  throw  families  off  their  guard  by  their  false  pretences, 
and  generally  end  by  marrying  a  beauty  or  an  heiress.  But 
I  trust  you  have  too  much  common  sense  to  take  up  with  a 
man  who  can  barely  afford  to  keejD  you." 

By  such  small  doses  of  worldly-wise  counsel  did  Mrs. 
Chevenix  strive  to  fortify  her  niece  against  the  peril  of  Mal- 
colm Forde's  influence.  Her  sharp  eye  had  discovered  some- 
thing more  than  common  kindliness  in  the  Curate's  bearing 
towards  Elizabeth — something  more  than  a  mere  spirit  of 
contradiction  in  the  girl's  liking  for  him.  But  there  was  time 
enough  yet,  she  told  herself;  and  the  tender  sprout  of  passion 
might,  by  a  little  judicious  management,  be  nipped  in  the  bud. 
She  would  not  even  wait  for  the  coming  spring,  she  thought; 
but  would  carry  off  Elizabeth  with  her  when  she  went  back  to 
town  a  little  before  Christmas.  She  had  intended  to  spend 
that  social  season  in  a  hospitable  Wiltshire  manor-house;  but 
that  visit  might  be  deferred.  Anything  was  better  than  to 
leave  her  niece  exposed  to  the  perilous  influence  of  Malcolm 
Forde. 

Again  and  again  had  she  made  a  mental  review  of  the 
tritons  in  the  matrimonial  market;  or  rather,  of  those  special 
tiitons  who  might  be  brought  within  the  narrow  waters  of  her 
own  drawing-room,  or  could  be  encountered  at  will  in  that 
wider  sea  of  society  to  which  she  had  free  ingress.  There  was 
Sir  Bockingham  Pendarvis,  the  rich  Cornish  baronet,  whom  it 
had  been  her  privilege  to  meet  at  the  dinner  parties  of  her  own 
particular  set,  and  who  might  be  fairly  counted  upon  for  daily 
tea-drinking  and  occasional  snug  little  dinners.  There  was  Mr. 
Maltby,  the  great  distiller,  who  had  lately  inherited  a  business 
po23ularly  estmiated  at  a  hundred  thousand  a  year.  There  was 
Mr.  Miguel  Zumires,  the  financier,  with  a  lion's  share  in  the 
public  funds  of  various  nations,  aquiline-nosed  and  olive- 
skinned,  sjDeaking  a  pecuhar  Spanish-English  with  a  somewhat 
guttural  accent.  These  three  were  the  mightier  argosies  that 
«ailed  upon  society's  smooth  ocean ;  but  there  were  numerous 


Strangers  and  Filgrinti.  85 

craft  of  smaller  touuage  whereof  Mrs.  Chevenix  kept  a  record, 
and  any  one  of  which  would  be  a  prize  worth  Doarding. 

Inscrutable  are  the  decrees  of  the  gods.  YV^hile  this  diplo- 
matic matron  was  weaving  her  web  for  the  next  London  season 
— even  planning  her  little  dinners,  reckoning  the  expenses  of 
the  campaign,  resolving  to  do  thing*  j  with  a  somewhat  lavish 
hand — Fate  brought  a  nobler  prize  than  any  she  had  dared 
to  dream  of  winning,  and  landed  it,  without  etFort  of  her  own, 
at  her  feet. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

•*  He  never  saw,  never  before  to-day, 
What  was  able  to  take  his  breath  away, 
A  face  to  lose  youth  for,  to  occupy  age 
With  the  dream  of,  meet  death  with — " 

It  was  early  in  November,  and  Mrs.  Chevenix  had  been  at  the 
Yicarage  a  month — a  month  of  inexorable  dulness,  faintly 
relieved  by  a  couple  of  provincial  dinner-parties,  at  which  the 
Hawleigh  pastor  assembled  round  his  well- furnished  board  a 
choice  selection  of  what  were  called  the  best  people  in  the 
neighbourhood.  But  the  best  people  seemed  somewhat  dismal 
company  to  Mrs.  Chevenix,  who  cared  for  no  society  that 
lacked  the  real  London  flavour — the  bouquet  of  Hyde-park  and 
the  Clubs.  She  was  beginning  to  pine  for  the  racier  talk  of 
her  own  peculiar  set,  for  the  small  luxuries  of  her  own 
establishment,  when  an  event  occurred  which,  in  a  moment, 
transformed  Hawleigh,  and  rendered  it  just  the  most  delightful 
spot  upon  this  lower  sphere. 

She  had  gone  to  church  witii  her  nieces  on  Sunday  morning 
in  by  no  means  a  pleasant  hiimour,  captiously  disposed  rather, 
and  inclined  to  hold  forth  about  their  papa's  pecuiarities  and 
their  own   shortcomings  in  a   strain  which   Elizabeth   openly 
resented,  and  the  other  girls  inwardly  rebelled  agairtst. 

"  If  I  had  been  as  cross  as  aunt  Chevenix  is  this  morning  in 
my  nursery  days,  I  should  have  been  told  that  I  had  got  up  on 
the  wrong  side  of  my  bed,"  said  Blanche,  walking  with  Diana 
in  the  rear  of  the  matron.  "  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  do  for  us 
mildly  to  suggest  to  auntie  that  she  must  have  got  up  on 
the  wrong  side  of  her  bed  this  morning.  It  might  seem  out  of 
keeping." 

"  I  wonder  you  stop  with  us  if  our  society  is  so  very  nn 
pleasant,  aunt,"  said  Elizabeth  boldly. 

"  You  ungrateful  girl  1  You  ought  to  know  that  I  an 
staviner  in   this   r(4nxinir  c^mate,  at  the  hazard   of  mv   own 


86  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

health,  simply  in  order  to  interpose  my  influence  between  yoa 
and  destruction." 

Elizabeth  greeted  this  reproach  with  a  scornful  laugh,  even 
at  the  gate  of  the  churchyard. 

"  You  foolish  auntie  !  you  surely  don't  suppose  that  your  pre- 
sence hei'e  would  prevent  my  doing  any  thing  I  wished  to  do ;  that 
the  mere  dead-weight  of  your  worldly  wisdom  would  quench 
*he  fire  of  my  impulses?  "  she  said. 

They  were  within  the  church-porch  before  aunt  Chevenii 
could  reply.  She  sailed  up  the  central  aisle  with  all  her  plain 
'jails  spread,  and  took  the  most  comfortable  seat  in  the  vicarage 
pew,  without  bestowing  so  much  as  a  glance  upon  the  herd  of 
nobodies  who  worshipped  their  Creator  in  that  remote  temple, 
aud  whose  bonnets  and  choice  of  colours  in  general  she  protested 
was  barbarous  enough  to  set  her  teeth  on  edge. 

She  sat  with  half-closed  eyelids  and  a  languid  air  during  the 
earlier  portion  of  the  service,  and  kept  her  seat  throughout  the 
reading  of  the  psalms;  but  in  the  middle  of  the  hymn  that  was 
sung  before  the  litany,  Elizabeth  was  surprised  by  a  complete 
change  in  her  aunt's  manner.  The  cold  blue  eyes  opened  to 
their  widest  extent,  while  their  gaze  grew  fixed  in  an  eager  stare. 
The  carefully-finished  eyebrows  were  raised ;  the  corners  of  the 
mouth,  which  feature  had  previously  been  distinguished  by  a 
Bomewhat  sour  expression,  relaxed  into  a  faint  smile ;  the  whole 
physiognomy  indicated  at  once  pleasure  and  surprise.  The  look 
was  so  marked  that  Elizabeth's  eyes  involuntarily  followed  the 
direction  of  her  aunt's  transfixed  gaze. 

Her  wondering  glance  that  way  did  not  show  her  anything 
▼ery  strange — only  old  Lady  Paulyn,  a  somewhat  faded  dame, 
in  a  lavender  satin  bonnet,  a  black  velvet  cloak,  and  rare 
old  mechlin  collar,  all  of  ancient  fashion.  In  precisely  such 
garments  could  Elizabeth  remember  Lady  Paulyn  from  the  days 
of  her  childhood.  She  lived  in  a  huge  and  dismal  architectural 
pile  about  seven  miles  from  Hawleigh,  saw  very  little  society, 
kept  no  state,  and  gave  but  sparingly  to  the  poor.  She  had  an 
only  son,  for  whom  she  was  said  to  be  hoarding  her  money,  and 
very  large  were  the  figures  by  which  the  gossips  of  Hawleigh 
computed  her  hoards. 

Of  young  Lord  Paulyn  (Viscount  Paulyn  in  the  peerage  of 
England,  and  Baron  Ouchterlochy  in  Ireland),  her  only  son, 
Hawleigh  had  of  late  years  seen  so  little  that  his  fiice  and  figure 
were  known  to  but  few  among  the  denizens  of  that  town.  Put 
various  were  the  rumours  of  that  young  man's  manners  and 
movements  in  the  more  brilliant  scenes  which  he  affected.  His 
tastes  were  of  the  turf,  turfy ;  he  was  said  to  have  a  tan  gallop 
of  hia  own  at  Newmarket,  and  a  stable  in  Yorkshire ;  and,  while 
some  authorities  declared  that  he  was  makins"  ducks  and  drakes 


s 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  87 

of  all  the  wealth  of  past  generations  of  Paulyns — all  more  or 
less  disting-aished  by  a  miserly  turn  of  mind,  and  dating  their 
nobility  from  the  time  of  Charles  the  Second,  who,  by  way  of 
recompense  for  divers  accommodations  of  a  financial  character, 
created  one  Jasper  Panlyn,  merchant  and  money-lender.  Vis- 
count Paulyn,  of  Ashcombe — other  wiseacres  affirmed  that  he 
had  doubled  his  fortune  by  lucky  transactions  on  the  turf — 
betting  against  his  own  horses,  and  various  strokes  of  genius  of 
a  like  calibre. 

On  whichever  side  the  truth  may  have  lain,  and  whatever 
hazard  there  might  be  of  future  ruin.  Lord  Paulyn  was,  at  this 
resent  date,  accounted  one  of  the  richest  bachelors  in  England, 
rlrs.  Chevenix  had  met  him  on  rare  and  happy  occasions,  to  he 
remembered  and  boasted  of  long  afterwards,  aud  had  gazed  upon 
him  with  the  eyes  of  worship.  He  had  even  been  civil  to  her  in  his 
easy  off-hand  way,  and  had  spoken  of  her  to  a  common  acquaint- 
ance as  a  *'  decent  old  party ; "  "  held  her  head  uncommon  high, 
though,  and  looked  as  if  she'd  been  driven  with  a  bearing-rein." 

The  Luttrells  were  on  sufficiently  friendly  terms  with  the 
Viscount's  mother,  although  the  Viscount  himself  was  a  stranger 
to  them.  About  twice  a  year  Lady  Paulyn  called  at  the  Vicar- 
age, and  about  twice  a  year  Mr.  Luttrell  and  a  brace  of  his 
daughters  made  a  ceremonial  visit  to  Ashcombe,  the  seat  of  the 
Paulyns.  At  school-treats  and  other  chanty  festivals,  on  warm 
summer  afternoons,  the  lavender  satin  bonnet  would  sometimes 
make  its  appearance,  nodding  to  the  commonalty  with  benignant 
condescension  ;  while  plethoric  farmers  of  a  radical  turn  opined 
that  "it  'ud  be  a  deal  better  if  the  old  gal  'ud  put  her  name 
down  for  a  fi'pun  note  a  little  oftener,  instid  o'  waggling  of  her 
blessed  old  bonnet  like  a  Chinee  mandarin." 

Whatever  five-pound  notes  Lady  Paulyn  did  bestow  upon  the 
deserving  or  undeserving  indigent  were  dealt  out  by  the  agency 
of  Mr.  Luttrell,  or  Mr.  Chapman,  the  incumbent  of  an  ancient 
little  church  in  the  ancient  village  of  Ashcombe.  No  necessi- 
tous wanderers  were  allowed  to  prowl  about  the  courtyards,  or 
loiter  at  the  back  doors  of  Ashcombe  Manor.  No  dole  of  milk, 
or  bread,  or  wine,  or  beer,  or  broken  victuals,  was  ever  dispensed 
in  the  Ashcombe  kitchen.  Lady  Paulyn  sold  the  produce  of  hei 
dairy  and  poultry-yard,  her  garden  stuffs  and  venison.  Orchard-' 
houses  and  vineries  she  had  none,  holdmg  the  cultivation  of 
fruit  under  glass  to  be  a  new-fangled  mode  of  wasting  money,  or 
she  would  assuredly  have  sold  her  grapes  and  pines  and  peaches. 
But  she  had  acres  of  apple-orchard,  whose  produce  she  supplied 
to  a  cider  manufacturer  at  Hawleigh,  retaining  only  a  certain 
number  of  bushels  of  the  least  saleable  apples  for  the  concoction 
of  a  peculiarly  thin  and  acid  liquor  whicn  she  drank  hersel^  and 
(rave  to  her  servants  and  dependents. 


88  Strangers  and  Pilgrimg. 

"  If  it  is  good  enough  for  me,  my  dear,  it  ought  to  be  good 
enough  for  them,"  she  told  her  companion  and  poor  relation. 
Miss  Hilda  Disney,  when  the  voice  of  revolt  \was  faintly  heard 
from  the  servants'  hall. 

The  lavender  satin  bonnet  was  not  alone  in  the  great  square 
pew.  Miss  Disney  was  seated  opposite  her  benefactress — a  fair 
quiet-looking  young  woman,  with  long  flaxen  ringlets,  and  a 
curious  stillness  about  her  face  and  manner  at  all  times ;  an  air 
of  supreme  repose,  which  seemed  to  have  grown  n])  out  of  the 
solitude  and  silence  of  her  joyless  life  until  it  had  become  an  at- 
tribute of  her  own  nature.  She  had  refined  and  delicate  fea 
tures,  a  faiiltless  complexion  of  the  blended  rose-and-lily  order, 
large  soft  blue  eyes,  and  lacked  only  life  and  expression  to  be 
Rlmost  beautiful.  Wanting  these,  she  was,  in  the  words  of 
Elizabeth  Luttrell,  a  very  pretty  picture  of  a  pink-and- white 
woman. 

"  There  is  not  a  factory  girl  in  Hawleigh  so  much  to  be  pitied 
as  Miss  Disney,"  said  Elizabeth,  when  she  discovered  this  young 
lady's  character  and  surroundings.  "How  much  better  to  be 
waxwork  altogether  than  be  only  half  alive  like  that !  But  there 
is  one  advantage  in  having  that  kind  of  semi-sentient  nature. 
I  don't  believe  Hilda  Disney  feels  anything — either  the  gloom  of 
that  dismal  old  house,  or  the  tyranny  of  that  awful  old  woman. 
I  don't  suppose  she  would  mind  very  much  if  Lady  Paulyn 
were  to  stick  pins  in  her,  as  the  witches  used  to  stick  them  it, 
their  wax  figures ;  or  perhaps  she  might  feel  pins,  though  she  is 
impervious  to  nagging." 

To-day  Elizabeth  looked  from  the  Viscoimtess  to  Miss  Disney, 
and  wondered,  with  some  touch  of  feminine  compassion,  if  she 
would  ever  have  a  new  bonnet,  or  go  on  wearing  the  same  head- 
gear of  black  lace  and  violets  to  her  dying  day.  But  there  waa 
a  third  person  in  the  Paulyn  pew,  and  it  was  upon  the  counte- 
nance of  this  last  individual  that  the  distented  eyeballs  of  Mrs. 
Chevenix  gazed  with  that  gaze  of  wonderment  and  delight. 

This  third  person  was  a  stranger  to  the  sight  of  most  people 
m  Hawleigh.  He  was  a  man  of  about  six-and-twenty,  broad 
shouldered  and  strongly  built,  but  not  above  the  middle  height, 
with  a  face  that  was  singularly  handsome,  after  a  purely  animal 
type  of  beauty — a  low  forehead ;  a  short  straight  nose,  moulded 
rather  than  chiselled ;  full  lips,  shaded  by  a  thick  brown  mous- 
tache ;  a  square  jaw,  a  trifle  too  heavy  for  the  rest  of  the  face ; 
a  powerful  column-like  throat,  fully  exposed  by  the  low-cut 
collar,  and  narrow  strip  of  cravat;  short-cut  hair  of  i-eddish 
brown ;  and  large  bright  eyes  of  the  same  hue,  a  reddish  hazel 
— eyes  that  had  never  been  dimmed  by  thought  or  study,  but- 
had  something  of  the  sailor's  hawk-like  far-oif  vision.  It  waa 
the  ftice    and  figure  of  a  Greek    athle^.e,   the   winner  of  tli« 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims,  89 

wild  olive-crown,  in  the  days  when  strength   was  accounted 
beauty. 

"  Do  }ou  know  who  that  is  in  the  pew  by  the  altar  ? "  whis- 
pered Mrs.  Chevenix,  under  cover  of  the  tall  grecu-baize-lined 
pew,  when  they  knelt  down  for  the  litany. 

"Don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  replied  Elizabeth  indiflferently ;  "  i 
suppose  it's  a  stranger  that  they've  put  in  the  Ashcombe  pew."' 

"  That  young  man  is  Lord  Paulyn,  one  of  the  richest  men  in 
London,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix,  in  an  awe-stricken  whisijei*. 

"  O,"  said  Elizabeth  settling  down  to  the  responses,  and  not 
peculiarly  impressed  by  this  announcement. 

Soreh'-  mechanical  was  Mi-s.  Chevenix's  share  in  the  service 
after  this  discovery.  Her  lips  murmured  the  responses,  with 
undeviating  correctness.  She  escaped  every  pitfall  which  our 
form  of  prayer  offers  for  the  unwarj^  and  came  up  to  time  at 
every  point ;  but  her  mind  was  busy  with  curious  thoughts 
about  Lord  Paulyn,  and  very  little  of  the  Yicai"'s  good  old 
English  sermon — a  judicious  solution  of  Tillotson,  South,  and 
Venn — found  its  way  to  her  comprehension. 

She  contrived  to  steer  her  way  down  the  aisle  so  as  to  emerge 
from  the  porch  with  her  elbow  against  the  elbow  of  Lord  Paulyn, 
and  then  came  radiant  smiles  of  recognition,  and  intense 
astonishment  at  this  unexpected  meeting. 

"  There's  nothing  very  remarkable  in  it,"  said  the  Viscount, 
while  the  Luttrell  girls  were  shaking  hands  -with  Lady  Paulyn 
and  Miss  Disney;  "my  mother  lives  down  here  you  know,  and 
I  generally  come  for  a  week  or  so  in  the  huntin'  season.  Going 
to  church  is  rather  out  of  my  line,  I  admit;  but  I  sometimes 
do  it  here  to  gratify  the  mater.  Any  of  your  people  live  down 
here,  Mrs.  Chevenix  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  staying  with  my  brother,  the  Vicar."' 

"  Bless  my  soul !  old  Luttrell  your  brother,  is  he  ?  I  had  no 
idea  of  that.  Those  girls  belong  to  you,  I  suppose  ?  rather  nice 
girls — talking  to  my  mother." 

"  Those  young  ladies  are  my  nieces." 

"  Uncommonly  handsome  girl,  that  tall  one.  We're  rather 
noted  for  that  sort  of  thing  in  the  west ;  pilchards,  clotted 
cream,  and  fine  women,  are  our  staple.  Pray  introduce  me  to 
your  nieces,  Mrs.  Chevenix.     Do  they  hunt  ?  " 

Mrs.  Chevenix  shook  her  head  despondently. 

"  Elizabeth  has  all  the  ambition  for  that  kind  of  thing,"  she 
said,  "  but  not  the  opportunity.  My  brother  has  four  daughters, 
and  the  Church  is  not  a  Golconda." 

"  That's  a  pity,"  said  the  Viscount,  staring  at  Elizabeth,  who 
was  talking  to  Miss  Disney  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  path, 
along  which  the  congregation  was  slowly  moving,  with  a  good 
deal  of  nodding  and  beckoning  and  friendly  salutation  ;  "  that  tall 


90  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

girl  looks  as  if  she  would  be  straiglitisli  rider.  I  could  give  ter 
a  good  mount,  if  her  father  would  let  her  hunt." 

"  That  would  be  qiiite  out  of  the  question,"  said  Mrs.  Cheve^ 
nix;  "  ray  brother  has  such  strict  notions ;"  a  remark  which 
might  have  sounded  somewhat  curious  to  the  easy-going  pastor 
himself;  but  ]\Irs.  Chevenix  had  certain  cards  to  play,  and  knew 
pretty  well  how  to  play  them. 

"  Hump,  I  suppose  so ;  a  parson  and  all  that  kind  of  thing. 
Which  is  Elizabeth  ?     The  tall  one  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Elizabeth  is  the  tallest  of  the  four." 

"  She's  an  uncommonly  handsome  girl." 

"  She  is  generally  considered  so." 

"  Egad,  so  she  ought  to  be.  There  wasn't  a  girl  to  compare 
with  bor  in  this  year's  betting.  Introduce  me,  please,  Sirs. 
Chevenix." 

The  matron  hesitated,  as  if  this  demand  were  hardly  agreeable 
to  her.  "  I  think  the  introduction  would  come  better  from  Lady 
Paulyn,"  she  said,  "  as  my  nieces  appear  to  be  on  friendly  terms 
with  her." 

"  0,  very  well ;  my  mother  can  present  me — it  comes  to  the 
same  thing.     Don't  you  know  her  ?  " 

Mrs.  Chevenix  shook  her  head  with  a  gentle  melancholy. 

"  My  nieces  have  not  taken  the  trouble  to  make  us  acquainted," 
she  said ;  "  I  was  not  even  aware  that  Lady  Paulyn  had  a  seat 
in  this  part  of  the  country." 

She  might  have  adJed,  that  she  was  not  even  aware  of  Lady 
Paulyn's  existence  until  this  morning.  She  had  supposed  the 
Viscount  to  be  in  the  independent  position  of  an  orphan. 

"  0,  yes,  we've  a  place  down  here,  and  a  precious  ugly  one, 
but  my  mother  likes  it ;  doesn't  cost  much  to  keep  up,  though 
it's  big  enough  for  a  barrack.  I  say,  mother,"  crossing  the  path- 
way, which  was  now  nearly  clear,  "  this  is  Mrs.  Chevenix,  Mr. 
Luttrell's  sister,  who  is  dying  to  know  you." 

Mrs.  Chevenix  made  a  sweeping  curtsey,  as  if  she  had  some 
idea  of  subsiding  into  unknown  depths  below  the  timeworn 
tombstones  that  paved  the  pathway.  The  lavender  bonnet  gave 
a  little  friendly  nod,  and  the  Viscountess  extended  a  paw  in  a 
crumpled  black  kid  glove. 

"  And  now,  mother,  you  may  present  me  to  these  young 
'adies,"  said  the  Viscount. 

The  presentation  was  made,  but  hardly  with  that  air  of  cor- 
diality which  it  was  Lady  Paulyn's  habit  to  employ  as  a  set-ofJ 
against  the  closeness  of  her  financial  operations  aud  the  inhospi- 
tality  of  her  gaunt  old  mansion.  Mrs.  Chevenix  detected  a 
lurkmg  reluctance  in  the  dowager's  manner  of  making  her  son 
known  to  the  Luttrell  girls. 

The  Vicar  came  out  of  the  porch  while   this  ceremoDj  was 


Slrangerg  and  Pilgrims.  91 

lieing  performed,  •with  Malcolm  Forde  by  his  side.  There  were 
more  greetings,  and  Elizabeth  had  time  to  shake  hands  with  her 
father's  cui-ate,  although  Lord  Paulyn  was  in  the  very  utterance 
of  some  peculiarly  original  remark  about  the  general  dulness  of 
Hawleigh.  Mr.  Forde  had  been  very  kind  to  her  since  her  re- 
turn to  the  path  he  had  clialked  out  for  her — deferential  even 
in  his  manner,  as  if  she  had  became  at  once  the  object  of  his 
gratitude  and  respect.  But  he  had  no  opportunity  of  saying 
much  to  Elizabeth  just  now,  though  she  had  turned  at  once  to 
greet  him,  and  had  forgotten  to  respond  to  Lord  Paulyn's  re- 
mark about  Hawleigh ;  for  Gertrude  plunged  immediately  into 
the  usual  parish  talk,  and  held  foi'th  upon  the  blessed  fruits  of 
her  late  labours  as  manifest  in  the  appearance  of  a  certain  Job 
Smithers  in  the  free  seats :  "  A  man  who  was  almost  an  infidel, 
dear  j\lr.  Forde,  and  used  to  take  his  children's  Sunday-frocks 
to  the  pawnbroker's  every  Thursday  or  Friday,  in  order  to  ob- 
tain drink.  But  I  am  thankful  to  say  I  persuaded  him  to  take 
the  pledge,  and  I  cherish  hopes  of  his  complete  reformation." 

"  Rather  given  to  pledges,  that  fellow,  I  should  think,  Miss 
Luttrell,"  said  the  Yiscouut,  in  an  irreverent  spirit.  "  I  can't 
conceive  why  young  ladies  in  the  country  plague  themselves 
with  useless  attempts  at  reforming  such  fellows.  I  don't  beHeve 
there's  a  ha'porth  of  good  done  by  it.  You  may  keep  a  man 
sober  for  a  week,  but  he'll  break  out  and  drink  double  as  much 
for  the  next  fortnight.  You  might  as  well  try  to  stop  a  man 
from  having  scarlet  fever  when  the  poison's  in  his  blood.  I  had 
a  trainer,  now,  in  the  north,  as  clever  a  fellow  as  ever  breathed. 
I  think  if  you'd  given  him  a  clothes-horse  to  train,  he'd  have  made 
it  win  a  cup  before  he'd  done  with  it.  But  there  was  no  keeping 
him  away  from  the  bottle.  I  tried  everything;  talked  to  him 
like  a  father,  supplied  him  with  chateau  Lafitte,  to  try  and  get 
him  otf  brandy ;  but  it  was  no  use,  and  the  stupid  beggar  had 
one  attack  of  D.  T.  after  another,  till  he  went  off  his  head  alto- 
gether, and  had  to  be  locked  up." 

This  improving  anecdote  Lord  Paulyn  apparently  related  for 
the  edification  of  Elizabeth  ;  since,  although  he  began  by  ad- 
dressing Gertrude,  it  was  on  the  younger  sister  his  gaze  was 
fixed,  as  he  dwelt  plaintively  on  the  hapless  doom  of  his 
trainer. 

"  Won't  you  come  to  the  Yicarage  for  luncheon.  Lady 
Paulyn?"  asked  ITr.  Luttrell,  who  had  the  old-fashioned  eager 
country-squireish  hosi)itality,  and  who  saw  that  the  Yiscount 
hardly  seemed  inclined  to  move  from  his  stand  upon  a  crum- 
bling old  tombstone  which  recorded  the  decease  of  "  Josiah  Judd, 
of  this  parish  ;  also  of  Amelia  Judd,  wife  of  the  above ;  and  of 
Hannah,  iniant  daughter  of  the  above,"  and  so  on,  through  a 
perplexins  string  of  departed  Judds,  all  of  this  parish ;  a    fact 


92  Strangers  a?id  Pilgrims. 

dwelt  upon  with  as  mucli  insistence  as  if  to  be  "  of  tliis  pariish" 
■were  an  earthly  distinction  that  ought  to  prove  a  jDassport  to 
eternal  felicity. 

"  You're  very  kind,"  said  the  dowager  graciously,  "  and 
your  luncheons  are  always  excellent ;  but  I  shouldn't  like  to 
have  the  horses  out  so  late  on  a  Sunday,  and  Parker,  my 
coachman,  is  a  Primitive  Methodist,  and  makes  a  great  point  of 
attending  his  own  chapel  once  every  Sunday.  I  like  to  defer  to 
my  servants'  prejudices  in  these  small  matters." 

"  O  Lady  Paulyn,  I  hope  you  don't  call  salvation  a  small 
matter  ! "  ejaculated  Gertrude,  who  would  have  lectured  an 
archbishop. 

"  Hang  Parker's  prejudices!  "  cried  Lord  Paulyn  ;  "  and  as 
to  those  two  old  screws  of  youi's  in  the  chariot,  I  don't  believe 
anything  could  hurt  them.  They  ought  to  have  been  sent  to  a 
knacker's  yard  five  years  ago.  I  always  call  that  wall-eyed 
gray  the  Ancient  Mariner.  He  holds  me  with  his  glassy  eye. 
We'll  come  to  the  Vicarage,  by  all  meanc,  Mr.  Luttrell." 

The  dowager  gave  way  at  once.  She  was  much  too  wise  to 
make  any  attempt  at  dragooning  this  only  son,  for  whose  en- 
richment she  had  pinched  and  scraped  and  hoarded  until  pinch- 
ing and  scraping  and  hoarding  had  become  the  habit  of  her 
mind.  Too  well  did  she  know  that  Eeginald  Paulyn  was  a 
young  man  who  would  go  his  own  way ;  that  her  small 
economies,  her  domestic  cheese-paring,  and  flint-skinning  were 
as  so  many  drops  of  water  as  compared  with  the  vast  ocean  of 
his  expenditure.  Yet  she  went  on  economising  with  ineffable 
patience,  and  thought  no  day  ill-spent  in  which  she  had  saved  a 
shilling  between  sunrise  and  sunset. 

They  all  moved  away  in  the  direction  of  the  Vicarage,  which, 
unlike  the  usual  run  of  vicarages,  was  somewhat  remote  from 
the  church. 

There  was  a  walk  of  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  between  St. 
Clement's,  v/hich  stood  just  within  the  West  Bar,  a  gray  old 
archwjiy  at  the  end  of  the  high-street,  and  the  abode  of  th« 
Luttrells.     The  Vicar  offered  his  arm  to  the  dowager. 

"You'll  come  with  us,  of  course,  Forde,"  he  said,  in  hia 
friendly  way,  looking  round  at  his  curate,  and  the  curate  did  not 
refuse  that  offer  of  hospitality. 

Sunday  luncheon  at  Hawleigh  Vicarage  was  a  famous  insti- 
tution. Mr.  Luttrell,  as  a  rule,  abjui'ed  that  mid-day  meal, 
pronouncing  it,  in  the  words  of  some  famous  epicure,  "  an 
insult  to  a  man's  breakfast,  and  an  injury  to  his  dinner."  Buu 
on  Sunday  the  pastor  sacrificed  iTlmself  to  the  convenience  of 
hia  household,  and  went  without  his  seven-o'clock  dinner,  in 
order  that  his  cook  might  exhibit  her  best  bonnet  in  the  after- 
noon and  evening  a*,  his  two  churches.      There  was  no  roasting 


Strangers  and  Piljrims.  9S 

or  boiling  in  the  vicarage  kitchen  on  that  holy  day,  only  a  gentle 
simmering  of  curries  and  fricassees,  prepared  overnight;  nor 
was  there  any  regular  dinner,  but  by  way  of  substitute  therefor, 
a  high  tea  at  eight  o'clock,  a  pleasant  easy-going  banquet, 
which  hai  been  much  afi'ected  by  former  curates.  But  woe  be 
to  the  household  if  the  two-o'clock  luncheon  were  not  a  select 
and  savoury  repast!  and  Miss  Luttrell  and  the  cook  held 
solemn  consultation  every  Saturday  morning  in  order  to  secure 
this  result. 

So  the  Vicar  enjoyed  himself  every  Sunday  with  his  friends 
round  him,  and  bemoaned  himself  every  Monday  on  the  suliject 
of  that  untimely  meal,  declaring  that  he  had  thrown  his  whole 
internal  machinei-y  out  of  gear  for  the  accommodation  of  hia 
servants. 

To-day  the  luncheon  seemed  a  peculiar  success.  Lady 
Paulyn,  who  was  somewhat  a  stranger  to  the  good  things  of 
this  life,  did  ample  justice  to  the  viands,  devoured  curried 
chicken  with  the  gusto  of  an  Anglo-Indian,  called  the  parlour- 
maid back  to  her  for  a  second  supply  of  oyster  vol-au-vent,  and 
wound-up  with  cold  sirloin  and  winter  salad,  in  a  manner  that 
was  eminently  suggestive  of  indigestion.  Lord  Paulyn  had  the 
modern  appetite,  which  is  of  the  weakest,  trided  with  a  morsel 
of  curry,  drank  a  good  deal  of  seltzer-and-brandy,  and  enjoyed 
him  self  amazingly  after  his  manner,  entertaining  Elizabeth,  by 
whose  side  he  had  contrived  to  be  seated,  with  the  history  of  hi« 
Yorkshire  stable,  and  confiding  to  her  his  lofty  hopes  for  the 
coming  year. 

She  was  not  particularly  interested  in  this  agreeable  dis- 
course; but  she  could  see,  just  as  plainly  as  Mrs.  Chevenix  saw, 
that  the  Viscount  was  impressed  by  her  beauty,  and  it  was  not 
unpleasant  to  her  to  have  made  such  an  impression  upon  that 
patrician  mind,  even  if  it  were  merely  the  affair  of  an  hour.  Nor 
was  she  unconscious  of  a  certain  steady  watchfulness  in  the  dark 
deep-set  eyes  of  Malcolm  Forde,  who  sat  opposite  to  her,  and 
was  singularly  inattentive  to  the  remarks  of  his  next  neighbour, 
Gertrude. 

"  I  don't  suppose  his  perfect  woman  ever  had  the  opportunity 
of  flirting  with  a  viscount,"  thought  Elizabeth,  "  or  that  she 
would  have  done  such  a  thing  if  she  had.  I  like  to  horrify  him 
with  an  occasional  ghmpse  of  those  depths  of  iniquity  to  which 
/  can  descend.  If  ne  cared  for  me  a  little,  now,  and  there  were 
any  chance  of  making  him  jealous,  the  pleasure  would  be  ever 
so  much  keener  ;  but  that  is  out  of  the  question." 

So  the  reformed  Elizabeth,  the  Christian  pastor's  daughter, 
who  visited  the  poor,  and  comforted  the  afflicted,  and  supported 
the  heads  of  sick  children  on  her  bosom,  and  read  the  gospel 
to  the  ignorant,  and  did  in  some  vague  undeterminate  manner 

u 


94  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

struggle  towards  the  higher,  purer  life,  vanished  altogether, 
giving  place  to  a  young  person  who  improved  her  opportunity 
with  the  Viscount  as  dexterously  as  if  she  had  been  bred  up  at 
the  knees  of  aunt  Chevenix,  and  had  never  known  any  loftier 
philosophy  than  that  which  dropped  from  those  worldly  lips. 
Malcolm  Forde  looked  on,  and  shuddered.  "  And  for  such  a 
woman  I  had  almost  been  false  to  the  memory  of  Alice 
Eraser ! " 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Elizabeth's  iniquity  was  of  an 
outrageous  nature.  She  was  only  listening  with  an  air  of  pro- 
found interest  to  Lord  Paulyn's  stable-talk,  even  trying  to 
comprehend  the  glory  of  possessing  a  horse  entered  for  next 
year's  Derby,  about  which  fifteen  to  two  had  been  freely  taken 
at  Manchester  during  the  autumn,  and  who  was  likely  to 
advance  in  the  betting  after  Christmas.  She  was  only  smiling 
radiantly  upon  a  young  man  she  had  never  seen  until  that 
morning— only  receiving  the  homage  of  admiring  eyes  with  a 
gi-acious  air  of  unconsciousness;  like  some  splendid  flower 
which  does  not  shrink  or  droop  under  the  full  blaze  of  a  meridian 
sun,  but  rather  basks  and  brightens  beneath  the  glory  of  the 
Bun -god. 

But  to  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  watched  her  with  an  interest 
he  would  have  hardly  cared  to  confess  to  himself,  this  conduct 
seemed  very  black  indeed.  He  groaned  inwardly  over  the  de- 
fection of  this  fair  young  soul,  which  not  a  little  while  ago  he 
had  deemed  regenerate. 

"  She  is  not  worth  the  anxiety  I  feel  about  her,"  he  said  to 
liimself :  "  Gertrude  is  a  hundred  times  her  superior,  really 
earnest,  really  good,  not  a  creature  of  whim  and  impulse,  drifted 
about  by  every  wind  that  blows.  And  yet  1  cannot  feel  the 
same  interest  in  her." 

And  then  he  began  to  wonder  if  there  were  indeed  something 
inherently  interesting  in  sin,  and  if  the  repentant  sinner  must 
needs  always  have  the  advantage  of  the  just  person.  It  seemed 
almost  a  hard  saying  to  him,  that  touching  sentence  of  the 
gospel  of  hope,  which  reserves  its  highest  promises  for  the  wilful, 
passionate  soul  that  has  chosen  its  owivroad  in  life  and  has  only 
been  brought  home  broken,  and  soiled,  and  tarnished  at  the  last. 

Gertrude  was  virtuous,  but  not  intei-esting.  _  Vainly  did 
Malcolm  Forde  endeavour  to  apply  his  ear  to  her  discourse.  Hia 
attention  was  distracted,  in  spite  of  himself,  by  that  animated 
talk  upon  the  other  side  of  the  wide  oval  table ;  his  eyes  wan- 
dered now  to  the  handsome,  sensual  face  of  the  Viscount,_  now  to 
Elizabeth's  lively  countenance,  which  expressed  no  weariness  of 
that  miserable  horsey  talk.  Nor  was  Mr.  Forde  the  only  person 
present  who  took  note  of  tliat  animated  coversation. 

From  her  place  at  the  farther  end  of  the  table,  Miss  Disney 'a 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  95 

caim  blue  eyes  wandered  ever  and  anon  towards  her  kinsm&n  and 
Elizabeth,  nardly  with  any  show  of  interest  or  concern,  \m\ 
with  a  coldly  curious  air,  as  if  she  wondered  at  Lord  Paulyn's 
vivacity,  as  an  unwonted  exhibition  on  his  part.  She  was  very 
quiet,  spoke  little,  and  only  replied  in  the  briefest  sentences  to 
any  remark  made  by  Mr.  Luttrell,  next  to  whom  she  w^is  seated. 
She  ate  hardly  anything,  rarely  smiled,  and  appeared  to  take 
very  little  more  interest  in  the  life  about  and  around  her  than  if 
ohe  had  been,  indeen,  a  waxen  image,  impervious  to  pain  or 
pleasure. 

Luncheon  came  to  an  end  at  last,  after  being  drawn  out  to  a 
point  that  seemed  intolerable  to  the  curate;  St.  Mary's  bells 
Bounded  in  the  distance,  from  the  eastern  end  of  the  large 
straggling  town.  There  was  only  a  short  afternoon  ser\'ice ;  the 
litany  and  a  catechising  of  the  children,  which  Mr.  Luttrell 
himself  rarely  attended,  deeming  that  perambulatory  examina- 
tion of  small  scholars,  the  hearing  of  collect,  epistle,  and  gospel, 
stumbled  through  with  more  or  less  blundering  by  monotonous 
treble  voices,  a  task  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  curate  mind.  So, 
as  soon  as  grace  had  been  said,  Mr.  Forde  rose  quietly,  shook 
hands  with  Gertrude,  and  slipped  away,  not  unseen  by  Ehza- 
beth.  "  There's  a  good  deal  of  that  fellow  for  a  curate,"  said 
Lord  Paulyn,  casting  a  lazy  glance  at  the  retreating  figure;  "  he 
ought  to  have  been  a  lifeguardsman." 

"  Mr.  Forde  has  been  in  the  army,"  Elizabeth  answered  coldly. 
"  I  thought  as  much,  and  in  a  cavalry  regiment,  of  course. 
He  has  the  '  long  sword,  saddle,  bridle '  walk.  What  made  him 
take  to  the  Church?  The  army's  bad  enough — stiff  examina- 
tions, bad  pay,  hard  work;  but  it  must  be  better  than  the 
Church.     What  made  him  change  his  profession?" 

"  Mr.  Forde  has  not  taken  the  trouble  to  acquaint  the  world 
with  his  motives,"  said  Elizabeth  with  increasing  coldness. 

Lord  Paulyn  looked  at  her  curiously.  She  seemed  somewhat 
eensitive  upon  the  subject  of  this  tall  curate.  Was  there  any- 
thing between  them,  he  wondered ;  a  flirtation,  an  engagement 
even  perhaps.  He  had  caught  the  curate's  glance  wandering 
her  way  several  times  during  the  banquet. 

"Egad,  the  fellow  has  good  taste,"  thought  Lord  Paulyn. 
"  She's  the  prettiest  woman  I  ever  saw,  bar  none,  and  is  no  end 
too  good  for  a  snuffling  parson.  I'll  make  that  old  Chevenix  tell 
me  all  about  it  presently." 

"  That  old  Chevenix"  had  been  trying  to  make  her  way  with 
the  dowager  during  the  lengthy  meal,  entertaining  her  with 
little  scraps  of  town-talk  and  small  lady-like  scandal ;  not  viru- 
lent vulgar  slander,  but  good-natured  genial  kind  of  gossip, 
touching  lightly  upon  the  failings  and  errors  of  one's  acquaint- 
ance, deploring  their  little  infirmities  and  mistaken  courses  with 


96  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

a  friendly  compassionate  spirit,  essentially  Christain.  But  she 
was  mortified  to  discover  that  her  small  efiForts  to  amuse  were 
futile.  The  dowager  would  not  acknowledge  acquaintance  with 
one  of  the  people  Mrs.  Chevenix  talked  about,  or  the  faintest 
interest  in  those  public  characters,  the  shining  lights  of  tho 
great  world,  about  whose  private  life  every  well-regulated  British 
mind  is  supposed  to  be  curious. 

"  I  don't  know  her,"  said  this  impracticable  old  woman  ;  "  I 
never  met  him ;  I'm  not  acquainted  with  'em ; "  until  the  soul  of 
the  Chevenix  sank  within  her,  for  she  was  ardently  desirous  of 
establishing  friendly  relations  with  this  perverse  dowager. 

"  I'm  a  Devonshire  woman,  and  I  only  know  Devonshire 
people,"  said  the  dowager,  ruthlessly  cutting  short  one  of  the 
choicest  stories  that  had  been  current  in  the  last  London 
season. 

"Then  you  must  know  the  Trepethericks!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Chevenix,  in  her  gushing  way;  "dear  Lady  Trepetherick  is  a 
Bweet  woman,  and  one  of  my  best  friends ;  and  Sir  Charles, 
what  a  thorough  independent-minded  Englishman!" 

"I  never  heard  of  'em,"  replied  the  dowager  bluntly;  and 
Mrs.  Chevenix  was  hardly  sorry  when  the  conclusion  of  the 
meal  brought  her  hopeless  endeavours  to  a  close. 

"  I  can't  keep  those  horses  waiting  any  longer,"  said  this  un- 
grateful old  woman,  as  she  rose  from  the  table,  after  having 
eaten  to  repletion.  "  Will  you  tell  them  to  bring  my  caniage 
directly,  Eeginald?" 

"  Nonsense,  mother ;  the  horses  are  in  the  stable,  and  much 
better  off  than  they'd  be  at  Ashcombe,  I  dare  say,"  answered  the 
Viscount:  "I'm  not  coming  home  for  an  hour.  Miss  Luttrell 
is  going  to  show  me  the  garden,  and  an  ancient  turret  that  was 
part  of  Hawleigh  Castle." 

"  Miss  Luttrell  is  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,"  said  the 
dowager  grimly,  perceiving  that  her  son's  gaze  was  rooted  to 
Elizabeth. 

"  Miss  Elizabeth  Luttrell,  then,"  said  that  young  man ;  "you'll 
show  me  the  garden,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  There's  not  much  worth  your  looking  at,"  answered  Eliza- 
beth carelessly. 

"  0,  yes,  there  is :  a  man  would  travel  a  long  way  to  see  as 
much,"  cried  the  Viscount  significantly;  and  then  thinking  that 
his  admiration  had  been  somewhat  too  direct,  he  went  on — "  a 
mediaeval  tower,  you  know,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  But  you 
needn't  wait  for  me,  mother,  if  you're  really  anxious  to  get 
home.     I'll  find  my  way  back  to  Ashcombe  somehow." 

"What,  walk  seven  miles  between  this  and  dinner-time!" 
fKclaimed  the  dowager. 

•'There  are  circumstances  under  which  a  man  might  do  as 


Strangers  and  Pilgrimt.  97 

much,"  answered  the  Viscount;  "and  the  Ashcombe  dinnerg 
are  not  banquets  which  I  hold  in  extreme  reverence." 

Lady  Paulyn  sighed  despondently.  It  was  a  hard  thing  to 
have  toiled  for  such  an  ingrate. 

"  I'll  wait  for  you,  Reginald,"  she  said  with  a  resigned  air 
"  Parker  must  lose  his  afternoon's  service  for  once  in  a  way.  I 
daresay  he'll  give  me  warning  to-morrow  morning." 

So  Lord  Paulyn  went  into  the  garden  with  Elizabeth,  longing 
sorely  for  the  solacement  of  a  cigar,  even  in  that  agreeable 
society.  He  made  the  circuit  of  grounds  in  which  there  was 
very  little  to  see  in  the  month  of  November ;  went  into  the 
orshard,  which  he  pronounced  "  rather  a  jolly  little  place,"  and 
contemplated  the  landscape  to  be  seen  therefrom ;  examined  the 
moss-grown  tower  which  flanked  the  low  white  house,  and 
uttered  divers  critical  remarks  which  did  net  show  him  to  be  a 
profound  student  of  archajology. 

"Nice  old  place  for  a  smoking  crib,"  he  said:  "what  do  you 
use  it  for?  lumber-room,  or  coal  or  wine  cellar — eh?" 

"My  sister  Blanche  and  I  sleep  in  it,"  replied  Elizabeth, 
laughing :  "  I  wouldn't  change  my  tower-room  for  any  other  iu 
the  house." 

"Ah,  but  you'll  change  it,  you  know,  one  of  these  days  whe** 
you  have  a  house  of  your  own;  and  such  a  girl  as  you  must 
look  forward  to  something  better  than  this  old  Vicarage." 

"I  am  quite  satisfied  with  surroundings  that  are  good  enough 
for  the  rest  of  my  family,"  said  Elizabeth  with  her  proudest  air; 
"  and  I  have  never  looked  forward  to  anything  of  the  kind." 

"  0,  but,  come  now,  really,  you  know,"  remonstrated  the  Vis- 
count, "  a  girl  like  you  can't  mean  to  be  buried  alive  for  ever. 
"Sou  ought  to  see  the  world — Ascot,  you  know,  and  Goodwood, 
and  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  boat-race,  and  the  pigeon-shoot- 
ing at  Hurlingham.  You  can't  intend  to  mope  in  this  dreary 
old  place  all  your  life.  I  don't  mean  to  say  anything  against 
your  father's  house,  and  I'm  sure  he  gave  us  an  uncommonly 
good  luncheon ;  but  this  kind  of  life  is  not  up  to  your  mark, 
you  know." 

Here  was  a  second  counsellor  suggesting  that  the  life  Eliza- 
beth Luttrell  lived  was  not  good  enough  for  her,  urging  upon 
her  the  duty  of  rising  above  her  surroundings;  but  in  a  some- 
what different  spirit  from  that  other  adviser,  whom  she  had  of 
late  pretended  to  obey.  And  this  foolish  impressionable  soul 
was  but  too  ready  to  follow  the  new  guide,  too  ready  to  admit 
that  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  be  fettered  to  the  narrow  life  of  a 
country  parsonage,  to  be  cut  off  for  ever  from  that  brighter 
world  of  Ascot  and  Goodwood.  It  was  not  that  she  considered 
the  Viscount  at  all  a  superior  person.  She  was  quite  able  to 
perceive  that  this  heir  of  all  the  ages  and  all  the  Paulyns  was 


» 


n8  IStrangers  and  Pilgrhna.  ■ 

■aiade  ot  very  vulgar  clay ;  but  she  knew  that  he  was  a  powe? 

in  that  unl^nown  world  whose  pleasures  she  had  sometimes 
longed  for  with  an  intense  longing,  and  it  was  not  unpleasant  to 
hear  from  so  great  an  authority  that  she  was  worthy  to  shine 
there. 

She  was  not  alone  with  the  Viscount  in  the  garden  even  for 
half  an  hour.  The  proprieties  must  be  observed  in  Devonshire 
as  well  as  in  Belgravia.  Mrs.  Chevenix  was  taking  a  constitu- 
tional with  Diana  close  at  hand,  while  Elizabeth  and  the  lord- 
ling  were  strolling  along  the  garden  walks,  and  making  the 
circuit  of  the  orchard.  The  dowager  had  also  hobbled  out  by  this 
time,  with  Mr.  Luttrell  in  attendance  upon  her,  not  too  well 
pleased  at  being  cut  off  from  the  sweets  of  his  afternoon  nap. 

'•  I  might  as  well  be  catechising  the  children  as  doing  this, 
he  thought  dolefully.  But  there  is  an  end  of  all  social  self- 
sacrifice,  and  the  lumbering  old  yellow  chariot  came  grinding 
over  the  carriage  drive  at  last,  whereupon  Lady  Paulyn  declared 
that  she  mtist  go. 

"  I  am  sure  we  have  had  a  vastly  agreeable  visit,"  she  said, 
cvagging  her  ancient  head  graciously,  and  softening  at  her  de- 
parture with  a  grateful  recollection  of  that  toothsome  vol-au- 
vent;  "you  must  all  come  and  dine  with  me  one  of  these  days." 
This  was  a  vague  kind  of  invitation,  which  the  Luttrells  had 
heard  before ;  a  shadowy  coin,  wherewith  the  dowager  paid  off 
small  obligations. 

"  Yes,  mother,"  cried  Lord  Paulyn  eagerly ;  "  you'd  better 
apk  Mr.  Luttrell  and  the  young  ladies,  and — er — Mrs.  Chevenix 
to  dine  with  you  some  day  next  week,  while  I'm  at  Ashcombe, 
you  know.  It's  deuced  dull  there  unless  we're  lucky  enough  to 
get  nice  people.     What  day  will  suit  you,  eh,  Mr.  Luttrell  ?  " 

"Hilda  shall  write  Miss  Luttrell  a  little  note,"  said  the 
dowager  graciously;  "  Hilda  writes  all  my  little  notes." 

"  Notes  be  hanged !"  exclaimed  Lord  Paulyn;  "  why  not  settle 
it  now  ?  You  are  not  going  to  give  a  party,  you  know ;  you 
never  do.  Come,  Luttrell,  name  your  day  for  bringing  over 
the  young  ladies.  There'll  be  nobody  to  meet  yon,  unless  it's 
Chapman,  the  Ashcombe  parson,  a  very  good  fellow,  and  an 
uncommonly  straight  rider.  AVill  Thursday  suit  ybn  ?  that's 
an  off-day  with  me.  You  might  come  over  to  luncheon,  and  do 
the  family  pictures,  if  you  care  about  that  dingy  school  of  art; 
— couldn't  you  ?  "  this  to  Elizabeth. 

"  The  I\Iiss  Luttrells  have  seen  our  picture-gallery,  Eeginald," 
said  the  dowager. 

"  Well,  never  mind,  they  can  see  it  again.     I  know  those  old 

{)ortraitB — a  collection  of  ancient  mugs — are  not  much  worth 
ooking  at ;  but  in  the  country,  you  know,  one  must  do  some- 
thing; it's  a  good  way  of  getting  through  a  winter's  afternoon. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  99 

And  I  can  teach  you  bezique,  if  you  don't  know  it " — this  to 
the  damsels  generally,  but  with  a  special  glance  at  Elizabeth. 
"  We'll  say  Thursday  then,  at  two  o'clock  ;  and  mind,  we  shall 
expect  you  all,  shan't  we,  mother  ?  " 

He  hoisted  her  into  the  chariot  before  she  could  gainsay  him, 
and  in  a  manner  extinguished  her  and  any  objection  she  might 
have  been  disposed  to  offer. 

"  What  a  charming  young  man !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chevenix, 
as  the  chariot  rumbled  away,  after  very  cordial  adieux  from  the 
Viscount,  and  a  somewhat  cold  leave-taking  from  Hilda  Disney. 
"  So  frank,  so  easy,  so  unassuming,  so  utterly  unconscious  of 
his  position ;  one  would  never  discover  from  his  manner  that  he 
was  one  of  the  richest  noblemen  in  England,  and  that  the 
Paulyns  are  as  old  a  family  as  the  Percys." 

"  I  don't  see  any  special  merit  in  that,"  said  Mr.  Luttrell, 
laughing ;  "  a  man  can  hardly  go  about  the  world  labelled  with 
the  amount  of  his  income,  or  wear  his  genealogical  tree  em- 
broidered upon  the  back  of  his  coat.  And  you're  mistaken 
when  you  call  the  Paulyns  a  good  old  family.  They  were  in 
trade  as  late  as  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second,  and  owe  their 
title  to  the  King's  necessities.  The  young  fellow  is  well  enough, 
however,  and  seems  good-natured  and  friendly;  but  I  cannot 
say  that  the  manners  of  the  present  day  impress  me  by  their 
elegance  or  their  polish,  if  I  am  to  take  Lord  Paulyn  as  a  fair 
sample  of  your  modern  fine  gentleman." 

"  The  fine  gentleman  is  as  extinct  as  the  megatherium, 
Wilmot ;  he  went  out  with  high  collars  and  black-satin  stocks. 
The  qualities  we  appreciate  nowadays  are  ease  and  savoir-fairfc. 
If  poor  George  the  Fourth  could  come  to  life  again,  with  his 
grand  manner,  what  an  absurd  creature  we  should  all  think 
the  first  gentleman  of  Europe!" 

"  I  am  sorry  for  our  modern  taste,  then,  my  dear,"  answered 
the  Vicar ;  "  but  as  Lord  Paulyn  seems  inclined  to  be  civil,  I 
suppose  we  must  make  the  best  of  him.  I  wish  he'd  spend  more 
of  his  time  down  here,  and  keep  up  the  old  house  as  it  ought  to 

kept,  for  the  good  of  the  neighbourhood." 

"  O  you  blind  old  mole ! "  thought  Mrs.  Chevenix,  as  Mr. 
Luttrell  retired  to  his  den ;  a  little  bit  of  a  room  at  the  end  of 
the  house,  with  a  latticed  window  looking  down  upon  the  sloping 
orchard :  a  window  that  faced  the  western  sun,  and  warmed  the 
room  pleasantly  upon  a  winter  afternoon.  There  was  a  tiny 
fireplace  in  a  corner ;  a  capacious  arm-chair ;  a  wi-iting-table,  at 
which  the  Vicar  hammered  out  his  weekly  sermon  when  he 
treated  his  congregation  to  a  new  one ;  a  battered  old  book-case, 
containing  a  few  books  of  reference,  and  Mr.  Luttrell'a  college 
classics,  with  the  cribs  that  had  assisted  him  therewith.  Here 
he  was  wont  to  slumber  peacefully  on  a  Sabbath  afternoon  until 


\00  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

Blanche  brought  him  a  cup  of  strong  tea,  and  told  him  it  was 

time  to  think  about  evening  service. 

Mrs.  Chevenix  ensconced  herself  in  her  favourite  chair  by  the 
drawing-room  fire,  with  a  banner-screen  carefully  adjusted  for 
the  protection  of  her  complexion,  and  sat  for  a  long  time  slowly 
fanning  herself,  and  meditating  on  the  events  of  the  day.  That 
Lord  Paulyn  was  impressed  by  her  niece's  beauty — in  modem 
phraseology,  hard  hit — the  astute  widow  had  no  doubt ;  but  on 
foe  other  hand  he  might  be  a  young  man  who  was  in  the  habit 
)f  being  hard  hit  by  every  pretty  girl  he  met,  and  the  impres- 
sion might  result  in  nothing.  Yet  that  invitation  toAshcombe, 
about  which  he  had  shown  such  eagerness,  indicated  something 
serious.  It  might  be  a  question  of  time,  perhaps.  If  the  young 
man  stayed  long  enough  in  the  neighbourhood,  there  was  no 
saying  what  brilliant  result  might  come  of  the  admiration 
which  he  had  exhibited  to-day  with  such  a  delightful  candour. 

"  How  very  odd  that  you  should  never  have  seen  Lord  Paulyn 
before,  Blanche  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chevenix  to  her  youngest  niece, 
who  was  sitting  on  the  hearth-rug  making  believe  to  read  a 
volume  of  Sunday  Uterature. 

"  It's  not  particularly  odd,  auntie,  for  he  very  seldom  comes 
here ;  and  when  he  does  come — about  once  in  two  years  perhaps 
— it's  only  for  the  hunting.  I  never  saw  him  in  church  before 
to-day,  that  I  can  remember." 

"  But  it  is  still  more  strange  that  I  should  never  have  heard 
you  speak  of  his  mother  " 

"  0,  she's  a  sting}^  old  thing,  and  we  don't  any  of  us  care  for 
her.  We  only  see  her  about  twice  a  year,  and  there's  no  reason 
we  should  talk  about  her.  She's  a  most  uninteresting  old 
party." 

"  My  dearest  Blanche,  ease  of  manner  is  one  thing,  and  vul- 
garity is  another ;  I  wish  you  would  bear  in  mind  that  distinc- 
tion. Party,  except  in  its  legal  or  collective  sense,  is  a  word  I 
abhor ;  and  a  girl  of  your  age  would  do  well  to  adopt  a  more 
respectful  tone  in  speaking  of  your  superiors  in  the  social 
Kcale." 

"I  really  can't  be  respectful  about  old  Lady  Paulyn,  aunt. 
We  had  a  housemaid  from  Ashcombe ;  and,  0,  the  stories  she 
told  me  about  that  dreadful  house !  They'd  make  your  hair 
stand  on  end.  I  wonder  what  they'll  give  us  for  dinner  next 
Thursday.     Barleybroth  perhaps,  and  boiled  leg  of  mutton." 

"  Blanche,  I  beg  that  you  will  desist  from  such  flipjiant 
shatter.  Lady  Paulyn  may  be  eccentric,  but  she  is  a  lady 
whose  notice  it  is  an  honour  to  receive.  Do  you  know  how  long 
Lord  Paulyn  usually  .stays  at  Ashcombe?  " 

"  He  doesn't  usually  stay  there,  aunt.  He  has  been  there 
once  in  two  years,  as  far  as  I  know ;  and  has  stayed  for  a  ibrt- 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  101 

nignt  or  ■three  weeks.  I've  heard  people  say  that  he  cares  for 
nothing  but  horses,  and  that  he  spends  his  life  in  going  from  one 
race-meeting  to  another." 

"  A  thorough  Englishman's  taste,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix  approv- 
ingly. If  she  had  been  told  that  he  was  an  amateur  house- 
breaker, or  had  a  passion  for  garrotting,  she  would  have  hardly 
blamed  his  weakness.  "  But  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  give  up 
that  sort  of  thing  when  he  marries." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

*'  The  burden  of  sweet  speeches.     Nay,  kneel  down, 

Cover  thy  hea^l,  and  weep  ;  for  verily 
These  market-men  that  buy  thy  white  and  brown 

In  the  last  days  shall  take  no  thougl)t  for  thee. 
In  the  last  days  like  earth  thy  face  shall  be. 

Yea,  like  sea-marsh  made  thick  with  brine  and  mire, 
Sad  with  sick  leavings  of  the  sterile  sea 

This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire." 

The  Vicar  had  fully  expected  to  receive  one  of  Miss  Disney's 
little  notes  postponing  the  dinner  at  Ashcombe,  so  foreign  was 
it  to  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  dowager  to  extend  so 
much  hospitality  to  her  neighbours;  but  instead  of  the  little 
note  of  postponement  there  came  a  little  note  "  to  remind ;  " 
and,  as  INIr.  Luttrell  observed,  with  an  air  of  resignation,  there 
was  notiiing  for  it  but  to  go. 

Then  came  a  grand  consultation  as  to  who  should  go.  It  was 
not  to  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Luttrell  could  enter  society,  even 
in  the  most  friendly  way,  with  five  women  in  his  wake.  Ger- 
trude at  once  announced  her  indifference  to  the  entertainment. 
It  was  Thursday,  and  on  that  night  there  was  an  extra  service 
and  a  sermon  at  St.  Clement's.  She  would  not  lose  Mr.  Forde's 
sermon  for  the  world. 

"  And  I  should  think  ijou  would  hardly  miss  that,  Lizzie,"  she 
eaid,  "  since  you  have  become  so  stanch  a  Forde-ite." 

But  on  this  Mrs.  Chevenix  protested  vehemently  that  Eliza- 
beth must  go  to  Ashcombe.  She  had  been  especially  mentioned 
by  the  Viscount.     He  was  to  teach  her  bezique. 

"  I  know  all  about  bezique  already,  and  I  hate  it,"  Elizabeth 
answered  coolly ;  "  but  I  should  like  to  see  a  dinner  at  Ashcombe. 
I  want  to  see  whether  it  will  be  all  make-believe,  like  the  Bar- 
mecide's feast,  or  whether  there  will  really  be  some  kind  of  food 
upon  the  table.  My  impression  is,  that  the  dinner  will  consis't 
of  a  leg  of  mutton  and  an  epergne." 

It  was  decided  therefore,  after  a  little  skirmishing  between 


102  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

the  sisters,  that  Elizabeth  and  Diana  should  accompany  Mk 
Luttrell  and  Mrs.  Chevenix  to  Ashcombe,  and  that  Gertrude 
and  Blanche  should  stay  at  home.  The  vicarage  wagonette, 
which  had  a  movable  cover  that  transformed  it  into  a  species  of 
genteel  baker's  cart,  would  hold  four  very  comfortably.  The  Vicar 
could  afibrd  to  absent  himself  for  once  in  a  way  from  the  Thurs- 
day-evening service,  which  was  an  innovation  of  Mr.  Forde's. 

The  appointed  day  was  not  altogether  unpropitious,  but  waa 
hardly  inviting :  a  dull  dry  winter  day,  with  a  gray  sunless  sky 
and  a  north-east  wind,  which  whistled  shrilly  among  the  leaf- 
less elms  and  beeches  of  the  wide  avenue  in  Ashcombe  Park  a« 
the  vicarage  wagonette  drove  up  to  the  house. 

Ashcombe  Park  was  a  great  tract  of  low-lying  land,  stretched 
at  the  feet  of  a  rugged  hill  that  rose  abruptly  from  the  very 
edge  of  the  wide  lawn  on  one  side  of  the  house,  and  over- 
shadowed it  with  its  gaunt  outline  like  a  couchant  giant.  The 
mansion  itself  was  a  triumph  of  that  school  of  architecture  in 
which  the  research  of  ugliness  seems  to  have  been  the  directing 
principle  of  the  designer's  mind.  It  was  a  huge  red-and-yellow 
brick  edifice  of  the  Vanbrugh  school,  with  a  ponderous  centre 
and  more  ponderous  wings ;  long  ranges  of  narrow  windows 
unrelieved  by  a  single  ornament ;  broad  flights  of  shallow  stone 
steps  on  each  side  of  the  tall  central  door ;  a  garden-door  at  the 
end  of  each  wing ;  an  inner  quadrangle,  embellished  with  a 
hideous  equestrian  statue  of  some  distinguished  Paulyn  who  had 
perished  at  Malplaquet :  a  house  which,  in  better  occupation  and 
with  lighter  surroundings,  might  not  have  been  without  a  certain 
old-fashioned  dignity  and  charm  of  its  own  peculiar  order,  but 
which  in  the  possession  of  Lady  Paulyn  wore  an  aspect  of 
depressing  gloom. 

There  were  some  darksome  specimens  of  the  conifer  tribe 
in  huge  square  wooden  tubs  upon  the  broad  gravelled  walk 
before  the  principal  front;  but  there  was  no  pretence  of  a 
flower-garden  on  any  side  of  the  mansion.  Lady  Paulyn 
abjured  floriculture  as  a  foolish  waste  of  money.  The  geo- 
metrical flower-beds  in  the  Dutch  garden,  that  had  once 
adorned  the  south  wing,  had  been  replaced  by  a  flat  expanse  of 
turf,  on  which  her  ladyship's  sheep  ranged  at  their  pleasure ; 
the  wide  lawn  before  the  grand  saloon — a  panelled  chamber  of 
fifty  feet  long,  with  musical  instruments  and  emblems  painted 
in  medallions  on  the  panels — was  also  a  pasture  for  those 
useful  animals,  which  sometimes  gazed  through  the  narrow 
panes  of  windows,  with  calm  wondering  eyes,  while  Lady 
Paulyn  and  Hilda  sat  at  work  within. 

Lord  Paulyn  was  pacing  the  walk  by  the  conifers  as  the 
wagonette  drove  up,  and  flew  to  assist  the  vicarage  man-of-all- 
work  in  his  attendance  upon  the  ladies. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrimt.  103 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  all  come,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  handed 
ont  Elizabeth,  apparently  unconscious  of  the  absence  of  her 
two  sisters.  "  Very  good  of  your  father  to  bring  you  to  such  a 
dismal  hole.  I  sometimes  wonder  my  mother  and  Hilda  don't 
go  to  sleep  for  a  hundred  years  like  the  girl  in  the  fairy  tale, 
from  sheer  inability  to  get  rid  of  their  time  in  any  other  way. 
But  they  sit  and  stitch,  stitch,  stitch,  like  a  new  version  of  the 
Song  of  the  Shirt,  and  write  letters  to  distant  friends,  the 
Lord  knows  what  about.  Here,  Treby,  take  care  of  the  ladies' 
wraps,  will  you,"  he  said  to  a  feeble  old  man  in  a  threadbare 
suit  of  black,  who  Avas  my  lady's  butler  and  house-steward,  and 
was  popularly  supposed  to  clean  the  knives  and  fill  the  coal- 
(Bcuttles  in  a,  cavernous  range  of  cellars  with  which  the  mansion 
was  undermined. 

The  Viscount  led  the  way  to  the  drawing-room,  or  saloon — 
that  spacious  apartment  with  the  flesh-coloured  panelling  which 
had  been  originally  designed  for  a  music-room.  It  was  a  stately 
chamber,  with  six  long  windows,  and  two  fireplaces  with  high 
narrow  mantelpieces,  upon  each  of  which  appeared  a  scanty 
row  of  tiny  Nankin  teacups.  Scantiness  was  indeed  the 
distinguishing  feature  of  the  Ashcombe  furniture  from  garret 
to  cellar,  but  was  perhaps  more  strikingly  obvious  in  this 
spacious  apartment  than  in  any  other  room  in  the  house.  A 
faded  and  much-worn  Turkey  carpet  covered  the  centre  of  the 
floor — a  mere  island  in  an  ocean  of  bees-waxed  oak ;  a  few 
spindle-legged  chairs  and  tables  were  dotted  about  here  and 
there;  two  hard-seated  couches  of  the  classic  mould — their 
frames  rosewood  inlaid  with  brass,  their  cushions  covered  with 
a  striped  satin  damask,  somewhat  frayed  at  the  edges,  and  ex- 
hibiting traces  of  careful  repair — stood  at  a  respectful  distance 
from  each  fireplace ;  and  one  easy-chair,  of  a  more  modern 
manufacture,  but  by  no  means  a  choice  or  costly  specimen  of 
the  upholsterer's  art,  was  drawn  close  up  to  the  one  hefth 
upon  which  there  burned  a  somewhat  meagre  pile  of  small 
wood,  the  very  waste  and  refuse  of  the  timber-yard.  Lady 
Paulyn  was  seated  in  this  chair,  with  a,  little  three-cornered 
shawl  of  her  own  knitting  drawn  tightly  round  her  skinny 
ohoulders,  as  if  she  would  thereby  have  eked  out  the  sparing 
supply  of  fuel.  Miss  Disney  sat  at  one  of  the  little  tables 
remote  from  the  fire,  copying  a  column  of  figures  into  an  ac- 
count-book. Both  ladies  rose  to  receive  their  guests,  but  not 
with  a  rapturous  greeting. 

"  It's  very  good  of  you  to  come  all  this  way  to  see  a  quiet  old 
woman  like  me,"  said  the  dowager,  as  if  she  had  hardly  ex- 
pected them,  in  spite  of  Hilda's  note  "to  remind." 

"  Why  the  deuce  don't  you  have  a  fire  in  both  fireplaces  iu 
such    weather  as  this,    mother  ? "  the    Viscount  demanded, 


104  Strangers  and  Pilyrims. 

shivering,  as  he  placed  himself  on  the  centre  of  the  heartnrug, 
and  thus  obscured  the  only  fire  there  was. 

"I  never  have  had  two  fires  in  this  room,  Reginald,  and  I 
never  -will  have  two  fires,"  replied  the  dowager,  resolutely. 
"  When  I  can't  sit  here  with  one  fire,  I  shall  leave  off  sitting  here 
altogether.    I  don't  hold  with  your  modern  luxurious  habits." 

"  But  it  must  have  been  an  ancient  habit  to  warm  this  room 
a  little  better  than  you  do,  or  it  would  hardly  have  been  built 
with  two  fireplaces,"  said  Lord  Paulyn. 

"That,  I  imagine,  Avas  rather  a  question  of  architectural 
uniformity,"  replied  the  dowager. 

•'  There's  the  luncheon-gong,"  said  her  son.  "  Perhaps  we 
shall  find  it  a  little  warmer  in  the  dining-room." 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  ceremony  at  Ashcombe,  con- 
sidering the  scantiness  of  the  household ;  and  Lady  Paulyn 
took  no  refreshment  that  was  not  heralded  by  beat  of  gong. 
Her  little  bit  of  roast  mutton,  or  her  fried  sole  and  skinny 
chicken,  cost  no  more  on  account  of  that  majestic  prelude,  and 
it  kept  up  the  right  tone,  as  my  lady  sometimes  observed  to 
Hilda.  The  luncheon  to-day,  though  quite  a  festive  banquet  in 
comparison  with  the  silver  biscuit-barrel  and  mouldering  Stilton 
cheese  which  formed  the  staple  of  the  daily  meal,  was  not  too 
bountiful  a  repast.  There  was  a  gaunt  piece  of  ribs  of  beef, 
bony  and  angular,  as  of  an  ox  that  had  known  hard  times,  at 
one  end  of  the  long  table;  a  melancholy-looking  roast  fowl, 
with  huge  and  scaly  legs,  whose  advanced  age  ought  to  have 
held  him  sacred  from  the  assassin,  and  who  seemed  to  feel  his 
isolated  position  on  a  vei-y  large  dish,  with  a  distant  border  of 
sliced  tongue,  lemon,  and  parsley.  There  were  two  dishes  of 
potatoes,  fried  and  boiled ;  there  was  a  little  glass  dish  of  mar- 
malade, that  was  made  quite  a  feature  of  on  one  side  of  the 
board ;  and  a  similar  dish  containing  six  anchovies  reposing  in  a 
grove  of  parsley,  which  enlivened  the  other  side.  There  was  an 
artistic  preparation  of  beetroot  and  endive  on  a  centre  dish, 
and  two  ponderous  diamond-cut  celery  glasses,  scantily  supplied 
with  celery ;  these,  with  a  pickle-stand  or  two,  and  a  good  deal  of 
splendour  in  the  way  of  cruets,  gave  the  table  an  air  of  being 
quite  liberally  furnished. 

The  meal  was  tolerably  cheerful  despite  a  certain  toughness 
and  wooden  flavour  in  the  viands.  Mr.  Luttrell  pleaded  hia 
sworn  enmity  to  luncheons  as  an  excuse  for  not  eating  any- 
thing; and  conversed  agreeably  with  the  dowager,  who  had 
brightened  a  little  by  this  time,  and  seemed  determined  to 
make  the  best  of  things.  Lord  Paulyn  sat  between  Mrs. 
Chevenix  and  Elizabeth,  and  had  a  good  deal  to  say  for  himself 
in  one  way  or  another.  He  was  enchanted  to  hear  that  Eliza- 
beth was  to  have  a  season  in  town  next  year. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  105 

"  You  must  come  to  me  for  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  mind. 
Mrs.  Cheveuix,"  he  said.     "  I  always  charter  a  crib— I  beg  your 

Sardou — take  a  house  on  the  river  for  that  event.  I  thought 
[is3  EHzabeth  would  never  consent  to  be  buried  alive  down 
here  all  her  days.  She  isn't  like  my  mother  and  Hilda.  It 
suits  them  very  well.  There's  something  ol  the  fossil  in  their 
composition,  and  a  century  or  so  more  or  less  in  a  pit  doesn't 
make  any  difference  to  them,  I'm  so  glad  I  shall  see  you  in 
town  next  year." 

This  to  Elizabeth,  and  with  an  extreme  heartiness.  He  could 
hardly  behave  like  this  to  every  pretty  girl  he  met,  Mrs. 
Chevenix  thought ;  it  must  mean  something  serious ;  and  in 
the  dim  future  she  Ijeheld  herself  allied  to  the  peerage,  through 
her  niece.  Lady  Paulyn. 

The  Viscount  seemed  very  glad  when  luncheon  was  over,  and 
he  could  carry  off  the  two  young  ladies  to  see  the  family  portraits. 

"  You  won't  care  much  about  that  kind  of  thing,  I  daresay," 
he  said  to  Mr.s.  Chevenix,  not  caring  to  be  troubled  with  that 
matron's  society;  "you'd  rather  stop  and  talk  to  my  mother." 

"There  is  nothing  would  give  me  more  pleasure  than  a  chat 
with  dear  Lady  Paulyn,"  simpered  aunt  Chevenix,  inwardly 
shuddering  as  she  remembered  her  vain  attempt  to  interest  that 
inexorable  dowager;  "but  my  brother  Wilmot  seems  to  have  a 
gveat  deal  to  say  to  her,  and  if  I  have  a  passion  for  one  thing 
above  another,  it  is  for  family  portraits,  especially  where  the 
family  is  ancient  and  distinguished  like  yours." 

"0,  very  well,  you  can  come,  of  course.  I'll  show  you  the 
old  fogies ;  my  grandfathers  and  greatgrandfathers,  and  all  their 
brotherhood  and  sisterhood." 

"  Miss  Disney  will  accompany  us,  of  course,"  said  Mrs, 
Chevenix,  smiling  graciously  at  Hilda,  who  sat  opposite  to  her, 
very  fair  to  look  upon  in  her  waxwork  serenity. 

"  0,  Hilda  knows  the  pictures  Iiy  heart.  She'd  rather  sit  by 
the  fire  and  spin;  or  go  on  wilh  those  everlasting  accounts  she 
is  always  scribbling  for  my  mother." 

"  I  will  come  if  you  like,  Mrs.  Chevenix,"  repUed  Hilda, 
ignoring  her  cousin's  remark. 

The  party  of  exjjloration,  therefore,  consisted  of  three  damsels, 
Mrs.  Chevenix  and  Lord  Paulyn;  aj^artylarge  enough  to  admit 
of  being  divided — a  result  which  aunt  Chevenix  had  laboured  to 
achieve.  Lord  Paulyn  straggled  off  at  once  with  Elizabeth 
through  the  long  suite  of  up[)er  chambers,  with  deep  oaken 
seats  in  all  the  windows— Hamjiton  Court  on  a  small  scale — ■ 
leaving  Hilda  to  play  cicerone  for  Mrs.  Clievenix  and  Diana, 
whom  her  aunt  contrived  to  keep  at  her  side.  This  left  the 
coast  clear  for  the  other  two,  whose  careless  laughter  rang  gaily 
through  the  old   empty  rooms.     Merciless   was   the   criticism 


106  Strang&n  and  Pilgrims. 

which  those  departed  Paulyns  suffered  at  the  hands  of  their 
graceless  descendant  and  Ehzabeth  Luttrell.  The  scowhng 
miUtary  uncles,  the  blustering  naval  uncles,  the  smirking  grand- 
mothers and  aunts,  with  powdered  ringlets  meandering  over 
bare  shoulders,  or  flowing  locks  and  loose  bodice  of  the  Lely 
period.  Lord  Paulyn  entertained  his  companions  with  scraps  of 
Family  history,  their  mesalliances,  extravagances,  and  other  mis- 
deeds which  did  not  tend  to  the  glorification  of  that  noble  race. 

But  Reginald  Paulyn  did  not  devote  all  his  attention  to  hia 
duties  as  cicerone.  He  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  Elizabeth 
about  himself  and  his  own  affairs ;  and  a  great  many  questions 
to  ask  about  herself,  her  likings,  dislikings,  and  so  on. 

"Pm  sure  you're  fond  of  horses,"  he  said;  "a  girl  with  your 
8upei"ior  intellect  must  be  fond  of  horses." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  taste  was  a  mark  of  superior  intellect ; 
I  may  have  a  dormant  passion  for  horseflesh,  certainly,  but  you 
Bee  it  has  never  been  developed.  I  can't  go  into  raptures 
about  Toby,  that  big  horse  you  saw  in  the  wagonette.  I  used 
*o  be  very  fond  of  Cupid,  a  pony  that  Blanche  and  I  rode  when 
we  were  children ;  but  unfortunately  Cupid  grew  too  small  for 
me,  or  at  least  I  grew  too  big  for  Cupid,  and  papa  gave  him 
away.     That  is  all  my  experience  of  horses." 

"Bless  my  soul !"  exclaimed  the  Viscount,  with  a  distressed 
air.  "  It  seems  a  burning  shame  that  a  girl  like  you  should  get 
so  little  out  of  life.  Why,  you  ought  to  have  a  couple  of 
hunters,  and  follow  the  hounds  twice  a  week  every  season ;  it 
'voi:ld  be  an  introduction  to  a  new  existence.  And  you  ought  to 
have  a  pair  of  thorough-bred  ponies,  and  a  nice  little  trap  to 
drive  them  in." 

Elizabeth  laughed  gaily  at  this  suggestion. 

"  A  clergyman's  daughter  with  her  own  hunters  and  pony- 
earriage  would  be  rather  an  incongnious  person,"  she  said. 

"  But  you're  not  going  to  be  a  clergyman's  daughter  all  your 
life.  When  you  come  to  London  you'll  see  things  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent light." 

"  London,"  repeated  Elizabeth,  with  a  little  sigh.  "  Yes ;  I 
think  I  should  like  that  kind  of  life ;  only  the  poor  old  home 
will  seem  ever  so  much  more  dismal  afterwards.  I  sometimes 
fancy  I  could  bear  it  better  if  there  were  not  quite  so  many 
Sundays.  The  week-days  would  go  drifting  by,  and  one  would 
hardly  know  how  long  the  dreary  time  was,  any  more  than  one 
counts  the  hours  when  one  is  asleep.  But  Sunday  pulls  you 
up  sharj^ly  with  the  reflection — '  Another  empty  week  gone  ; 
another  empty  week  coming!'  A  day  of  rest,  too,  after  a 
week  of  nothingness.     What  a  mockery  !  " 

"  Sunday  is  a  bore,  certainly,"  said  the  Viscount.  "  People 
are  so  dam  preiudiced.      If  it  wasn't  for  Tattersall's,  and  the 


Strangers  and  Pilgrimg.  107 

Star-aud- Garter — a  rather  jolly  dinner-place  near  town,  you 
know — Sunday  would  be  unbearable.  But  I  wouldn't  hurry 
myself  about  coming  back  to  Hawleigh  after  you've  had  a  season 
in  town,  if  I  were  you.  Sufficient  for  the  day,  you  know,  as 
that  fellow  Shakespeare  says.  In  the  first  place,  it's  a  long 
way  ahead;  and  in  the  second,  you  may  never  come  back  at  all. 
Who  knows  ?  " 

They  were  sitting  on  one  of  the  deep  old  window-seats,  waiting 
for  the  two  young  ladies  and  Mrs.  Chevenix,  that  diplomatic 
person  having  contrived  to  ask  Hilda  so  many  questions  about 
the  pictures,  and  to  be  so  fascinated  ever  and  anon  by  glimpses 
of  that  flat  waste  of  verdure  called  the  park,  as  to  detain  her 
party  for  some  time  by  the  way,  thus  affording  Elizabeth  and 
the  Viscount  ample  leisure  for  their  tete-a-tete.  They  wei'e  sit- 
ting side  by  side  in  one  of  the  windows ;  Elizabeth  with  her 
head  resting  against  the  ponderous  shutter,  the  golden-brown 
hair  melting  into  the  rich  brown  of  the  polished  oak,  the  heavy 
eyelids  drooping  lazily  over  the  dai-k-blue  eyes,  the  whole  face  in 
a  half  listless  repose.  Very  different  would  have  seemed  the 
same  face  if  Malcolm  Forde  had  been  her  companion — radiant 
with  a  light  and  life  whose  glory  Eeginald  Paulyn  was  destined 
never  to  behold. 

"  You  can't  tell  what's  in  the  future,  you  see,"  said  the 
Viscount,  looking  curiously  at  the  tranquil  face  opposite  him. 
"  Suppose  I  were  to  tell  your  fortune — eh.  Miss  Luttrell?  " 

"  I  should  have  to  cross  yonr  ^mlm  with  a  piece  of  gold,  per- 
haps, and  I'm  sure  I  haven't  any." 

•'  Never  mind  the  gold.     Shall  I  tell  you  your  fortune  ?  " 

"I  have  no  great  faith  in  your  prophetic  power." 

"  You  wouldn't  say  tha-t  if  you  saw  my  betting-book.  I  have 
not  been  out  in  my  calculations  three  times  since  the  Craven 
meeting." 

"But  that  is  quite  another  matter ;  you  have  some  solid  ground- 
work for  your  calculations  there ;  and  here  you  have  none." 

"  Haven't  I?  Yes,  I  have ;  only  you'd  be  oflFended  if  I  were 
to  tell  you  what  it  is.  I  must  have  your  hand,  please — no,  the 
left,"  as  she  offered  him  the  right  with  a  somewhat  reluctant 
air.  "  Yes,  in  tliis  pretty  little  pink  palm  I  can  read  a  great  deal. 
First  and  foremost,  that  it  will  be  your  own  fault  if  ever  you 
go  back  to  Hawleigh  jaarsonage  as  Miss  Luttrell ;  secondly,  that 
you  can  have  as  many  hunters  as  you  Hke  at  your  disposal  next 
winter;  thirdly,  that  it  will  be  your  own  fault  if  you  have  not 
your  pony-carriage  and  outriders  for  the  park  in  the  following 
spring.  That's  my  prophecy.  Of  course  it  will  depend  in  a 
considerable  measure  upon  yourself  whether  I  prove  a  trufc 
prophet." 

Elizabeth's  heai-t  beat  a  little  faster  as  Lord  Paulyn  released 


108  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

her  hand,  with  just  the  faintest  detention  of  those  slim  fingers 
n  his  strong  grasp.  Was  not  this  the  very  realisation  of  her 
Drightest,  fondest  dream  of  earthly  glory  P  Eauk  and  wealth, 
•!ashion  and  pleasure  and  splendour,  seemed,  as  it  were,  flung 
■iito  her  lap,  like  a  heap  of  gathered  roses,  without  trouble  ot 
effort  of  her  own  to  compass  their  winning;  prizes  in  life'slot- 
tery  that  she  had  only  thought  of  in  a  far-off'  way,  as  blessings 
which  might  come  to  her  sooner  or  later,  if  fortune  were  kind — 
but  prizes  that  she  had  thought  of  very  much  and  very  often — 
to  be  cast  thus  at  her  feet !  For,  although  the  Yiscount  had 
not  in  plain  words  offered  her  his  hand  and  fortune,  there  was  a 
significance  in  his  tone,  an  earnestness  in  his  looks,  that  made 
his  speech  almost  a  prehminary  offer — a  sounding  of  the  ground, 
before  taking  a  bolder  step." 

She  gave  a  little  silvery  laugh,  which  seemed  a  sufficient  reply 
to  Lord  Paulyn's  vaticination. 

Even  in  that  moment,  with  a  vision  of  'horses  and  carriages, 
country  seats  and  opera-boxes,  shining  before  her ;  dazzled  with 
the  thought  of  how  grand  a  thing  it  would  be  actually  to  win 
the  position  she  had  talked  of  winning  only  in  her  wildest,  most 
insolent  moods ;  to  prove  to  Gertrude  and  Diana,  and  all  the 
little  world  which  might  have  doubted  or  disparaged  her,  that 
she  was  indeed  a  superior  creature,  marked  out  by  destiny  for  a 
splendid  career — even  amid  such  thoughts  as  these,  there  came 
the  image  of  Malcolm  Forde,  a  disturbing  presence. 

"Could  I  bear  my  hfe  without  him?"  she  thought;  "  could 
I  ever  jjut  him  quite  out  of  my  mind  ?  " 

All  her  worldly  longings,  her  ignorant  yea^-ning  for  the  splen- 
dours of  this  world,  seemed  hardly  strong  enough  to  weigh 
against  that  foolish  passion  for  a  man  who  had  never  professed 
any  warmer  regard  for  her  than  for  the  most  commonplace 
yr^ung  woman  in  his  congregation. 

"  If  he  loved  me,  and  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  should  I  be 
foohsh  enough  to  marry  him,  I  wonder?"  she  thought,  while 
Lord  Paulyn's  admiring  gaze  was  still  rooted  to  her  thoughtful 
face;  "would  1  give  up  every  pleasure  I  have  ever  dreamed 
about  fer  his  sake  ?" 

The  Viscount  was  happily  unconscious  of  the  turn  which  hia 
companion's  thoughts  had  taken.  He  fancied  that  it  was  Ida 
own  suggestive  remarks  which  had  made  her  thougi»Vful. 

"  I  fancy  I  hit  her  rather  hard  there,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  1 
don't  suppose  it  will  ever  come  to  anything,  and  I  have  made 
my  book  so  as  to  hedge  the  matrimonial  question  altogether ; 
but  if  ever  I  do  marry,  that's  the  girl  I'll  have  for  my  wife. 
Not  a  sixpence  to  bless  herself  with,  of  course— and  there  are  no 
end  of  young  women  in  the  market  who'd  bring  me  a  hatful  of 
•noney — but  a  man  can't  have  everything,  and  a  girl  who'd  been 


Strangers  and  Pilgrima.  109 

■brought  up  in  a  Devonshire  parsonage  wouldn't  be  likely  to  have 
Rny  extravagant  notions  calculated  to  ruin  a  fellow." 

By  which  sagacious  reflection  it  will  be  seen  that  the  Viscouj**) 
■was  not  without  the  Paulyn  virtue  of  economy. 

Hilda's  calm  presence  ajipcai-ed  anon  upon  the  threshold  oi 
the  open  door,  leading  the  way  for  the  others ;  and  this  being 
the  last  of  the  state  rooms,  the  Viscount's  opportunities  carne 
to  an  end.  He  was  hardly  sorry  for  this,  perhaps,  having  _  said 
already  rather  more  than  he  wanted  to  say.  "  But  that  girl  is 
handsome  enough  to  make  any  fellow  lose  his  head,"  he  said  to 
himself,  by  way  of  excuse  for  his  own  imprudence. 

Miss  Disney  surveyed  the  two  with  a  thoughtful  countenance. 
"  I  hope  you  have  been  entertained  with  the  pictures,  Miss 
Elizabeth,"  she  said,  with  the  faintest  possible  sneer ;  "  I  had 
no  idea  that  Eeginald  was  so  accomplished  a  critic  as  to  keep 
you  amused  all  this  time." 

"  We  haven't  been  looking  at  the  pictures  or  talking  of  the 
pictures  half  the  time,"  replied  Elizabeth  coolly.  "  You  don't 
imagine  one  could  interest  oneself  for  an  hour  with  those  dingy 
old  portraits.  We  have  been  talking  of  ourselves — always  a 
nwst  delightful  subject." 

Miss  Disney  smiled  a  wintry  smile. 

"  Then  if  we  have  done  with  the  pictures,  we  may  as  well  go 
back  to  my  aunt,"  she  said. 

"  0,  hang  it  all,"  exclaimed  Lord  Paulyn,  looking  at  his  watch, 
a  bulky  hunter  that  had  been  over  more  five  barred  gates  and 
buUtiuohes  than  fall  to  the  lot  of  many  timepieces,  "  there's  an 
hour  and  a  half  before  dinner ;  we  can't  shiver  in  that  Siberian 
drawing-room  all  that  time.  Put  on  your  wraps,  and  come  for 
a  walk  in  the  park,  and  I'll  take  you  round  to  the  stables  and 
show  you  my  hunters." 

Anything  seemed  preferable,  even  to  aunt  Chevenix,  to  that 
dreary  drawing-room  with  its  handful  of  fuel ;  so  the  ladies  clad 
themselves  in  shawls  and  winter  jackets,  and  sallied  out  with 
Lord  Paulyn  to  inspect  his  domain. 

There  was  very  little  to  see  in  the  park — a  vast  expanse  of 
flat  greensward  dotted  about  by  some  fine  old  timber ;  here  and 
tiiere  a  young  plantation  of  sycamore  and  poplar — the  dowager 
affected  only  the  cheapest  kind  of  timber — looking  pinched  and 
poor  in  its  leatlessness,  protected  by  a  rugged  post-and-rail  fence, 
with  Lady  Paulyn's  initials  branded  iipoii  every  rail,  lest  mid- 
night marauders  should  plunder  her  fences  in  their  lawless  quest 
for  firewood.  It  was  all  very  sombre  and  dreary  in  the  early 
November  twilight,  and  the  black  moorland  above  them  took  a 
threatening  aspect,  as  of  a  sullen  giant  meditating  some  ven- 
geance agains^the  house  of  Ashcombe,  which  had  lain  a  vabsal 
at  his  feet  so  long. 


110  Strangers  and  Pilgrimii. 

"  I  would  rather  have  the  humblest  cottage  perched  up  yonder 
on  the  snmmit  of  that  hill,"  cried  Elizabeth,  pointing  to_  the  dark 
'idge  of  the  moor,  behind  -which  the  faint  yellow  light  was 
fading,  "  than  this  grand  house  down  here ;  there's  something 
stifling  in  the  atmosphere." 

"  You'd  find  it  uncommonly  cold  up  yonder  in  the  winter," 
replied  the  Viscount  in  his  practical  way ;  "  and  Ashcombo 
wouldn't  be  half  a  bnd  place  if  it  was  properly  kept  up,  wi^.v 
about  six  times  the  establishment  my  mother  keeps._  But  she 
has  her  whims,  poor  old  lady,  and  I'm  bound  to  give  way  to 
them  as  long  as  she's  mistress  here." 

"  How  good  of  you  ! "  said  Hilda ;  "  how  very  good  of  you,  to 
allow  my  aunt  to  deprive  herself  of  luxuries  and  pleasures  in 
order  that  you  may  be  the  richest  man  in  the  county !" 

"  You  needn't  indulge  your  natural  propensity  for  sneering, 
at  my  expense.  Miss  'Disney,"  "  replied  Lord  Paulyn  rather 
savagely.  "  It  amuses  my  mother  to  save  money,  and  I  let  her 
do  it.  Just  as  I  should  let  her  keep  a  roomful  of  tame  cats  if 
fihe  had  a  fancy  that  way.  I  don't  think  your  position  in^  the 
family  is  one  that  gives  you  a  right  to  criticise  my  conduct." 

The  fair  transparent  face  flushed  faintly  for  a  moment,  but 
Miss  Disney  vouchsafed  no  answer;  and  Diana  Luttrell  plunged 
valorously  into  the  gap  with  an  eager  demand  to  see  the  hunters 
before  it  grew  quite  dark. 

"Very  proper  indeed,"  thought  Mrs.  Chevenix;  "that  kind 
of  young  woman  requires  a  good  deal  of  putting  down.  I  never 
like  the.-o  dependent  cousins  about  a  young  man — especially  if 
they  happen  to  be  good-looking." 

She  glanced  at  Miss  Disney,  a  shm  graceful  figure  of  about 
middle  height,  dressed  in  a  shabby  black  silk  gown,  but  with  a 
certain  elegance  that  was  independent  of  dress.  A  fair  delicate 
face,  in  whose  thoughtful  calm  the  Chevenix  eye  could  discover 
very  little.  She  had  only  a  general  impression  that  these  quiet 
young  women  are  of  all  others  the  m<  st  dangerous. 

They  went  to  the  stables  to  see  ]  ord  Paulyn's  horses;  and 
Mrs.  Chevenix  had  to  endure  rather  an  uncomfortable  quarter 
of  an  hour  going  in  and  out  of  loose  boxes,  where  satin-coatoiJ 
steeds  with  fiery  eyes  jerked  and  champed  and  snorted  at  her 
with  malignant  intentions,  or  seemed  so  to  champ  and  snort; 
but  she  bore  it  all  with  a  lamb-like  meekness:  while  Ehzabclh 
patted  the  velvety  noses  of  these  creatures  with  her  ungloved 
hand,  and  stood  fearlessly  beside  them  in  a  manner  that  went 
far  to  confirm  the  Viscount's  belief  in  her  vast  superiority  to  the 
common  order  of  women.  Not  that  Hilda  Disney  showed  any 
fear  of  the  horses.  She  was  as  much  at  home  with  them  as  if 
they  had  been  so  many  lap-dogs,  and  they  seemed  to  know  and 
bve  her,  a  fact  which  Mrs.  Chevenix  marked  with  a  jealous  eye. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims,  IH 

•*  Love  me,  love  my  dog,"  she  thouglit ;  "  some  people  begin 
by  loving  the  dog." 

It  was  dark  when  they  left  the  great  roomy  quadrangle  where 
tlie  long  row  of  loose  boxes  had  the  air  of  so  many  cells  for 
solitary  confinement,  and  Miss  Disney  conducted  them  to  one 
of  the  numerous  spare  bedrooms  to  readjust  their  toilets  for  the 
evening,  a  bedroom  which  was  spare  in  every  sense  of  the  word; 
sparely  furnished  with  an  ancient  Ibur-poster  and  half  a  dozen 
grim  high-backed  chairs,  a  darksome  mahogany  dressing-table,  a 
tall  narrow  looking-glass  which  was  a  most  impartial  reflector  of 
the  human  countenance,  making  everyone  alike  hideous;  spareljr 
lighted  with  a  single  candle  in  a  massive  silver  candlestick, 
engraved  with  the  Paulyn  arms.  Here  Hilda  left  them  to  their 
own  devices.  There  was  no  offer  of  afternoon  tea,  and  Diana 
yawned  dismally  as  she  cast  herself  upon  one  of  the  high-backed 
chairs. 

"  How  I  wish  it  was  over ! "  she  exclaimed ;  "  I  don't  think  I 
ever  had  such  a  long  day.  It's  all  very  well  for  Lizzie,  she  has 
Lord  Paul3'n  to  flirt  with,  and  I  suppose  it's  i-ather  nice  to  Hirt 
with  a  Viscount.  But  Miss  Disney  is  really  the  most  un-get- 
on-able-with  girl  that  it  was  ever  my  misfortune  to  encounter." 

"  Miss  Disney  is  a  very  clever  young  woman,  my  dear,  for  all 
that,"  replied  Mrs.  Chevenix  mysteriously ;  "  rely  upon  it,  she 
has  her  own  views  about  her  position  here." 

"  You  mean  that  she  would  like  to  marry  her  cousin,  I  sup- 
pose." said  Elizabeth. 

"  I  mean  that  to  do  that  is  the  sole  aim  and  object  of  her 
life,"  replied  Mrs.  Chevenix  with  conviction,  "but  a  design  in 
which  she  will  not  succeed." 

"  You're  so  suspicious,  auntie,"  said  Elizabeth  carelessly. 
"  Aren't  we  to  have  any  more  candles  ?  O,  dear  me,  what  a 
dread  ful  old  place  this  is  ! — something  like  those  goblin  castles 
one  reads  of  in  German  legends,  where  there  are  a  number  of 
luige  ancient  rooms  and  only  one  old  steward,  and  where  a 
traveller  begs  a  night's  shelter,  and  is  half  frightened  to  death 
before  morning." 

The  dinner,  which  Elizabeth  had  looked  forward  to  seeing  aa 
a  kind  of  natural  curiosity,  was  of  a  somewhat  shadowy  and 
Barmecide  order,  like'the  pale  wraith  of  some  decent  dinner  that 
had  died  and  been  buried  a  long  while  ago.  There  was  Julienne, 
that  refuge  of  the  destitute  in  soups,  a  thin  and  vapid  decoc- 
tion, with  a  faint  flavour  of  pot-herbs  and  old  bones ;  there  waa 
filleted  sole  a  la  niaitre  d'hotel,  with  a  good  deal  more  sauce^ 
h  compound  of  the  bill-sticker-and-paste-bru.sli  order — than  sole. 
There  was  curry,  that  rock  of  refuge  for  the  distressed  cook — a 
curry  which  might  have  been  veal  or  rabbit,  or  the  remains  of 
tJie  ancient  fowl  that  had  graced  the  board  at  luncheon ;  and 


112  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

there  were  patties  also,  of  a  somewhat  flavourless  order,  patties 
that  were  curiously  lacking  in  individuality.  The  joint  is  a 
more  serious  thing,  and  the  cook,  feeling  that  her  art  was  here 
unavailing,  came  to  the  front  boldly  with  a  very  small  leg  of 
Dartrnoor  mutton,  which  gave  place  anon  to  a  brace  of  pheasants, 
the  victims  of  Lord  Paulyn's  gun.  The  sweets  were  various 
preparations  of  a  gelatinous  and  farinaceous  order,  stately  in 
shape  and_  appearance,  and  faintly  flavoured  with  Marsala,  or 
essential  oil  of  almonds.  The  dessert  consisted  of  biscuits,  and 
almonds  and  raisins,  a  dish  of  wintry  apples,  and  another  of 
half-ripened  oranges,  and  some  fossil  preparations  of  crystallised 
fruit,  which  looked  like  heir-looms  that  had  been  handed  down 
from  generation  to  generation  of  the  Paulyns.  This  banquet — 
served  with  a  solemn  air,  and  a  strict  observance  of  the  pro- 
prieties, by  the  ancient  man-of  all- work  and  a  puritanical-look- 
ing parlour-maid,  who  evidently  had  the  ancient  under  her 
thumb,  and  who  gibed  at  him  and  scolded  him  ever  and  anon  in 
the  retirement  of  the  sideboard — was  a  somewhat  dreary  meal ; 
but  Lord  Paulyn  had  Elizabeth  on  his  left  hand,  and  found 
plenty  to  talk  about  with  that  damsel  while  the  barren  courses 
dragged  their  slow  length  along.  Mr.  Luttrell,  to  whom  a  good 
dinner  was  the  very  mainstay  of  existence,  sought  in  vain  to 
satisfy  his  appetite  with  the  insignificant  morsels  of  provision 
that  were  handed  to  him  by  the  ancient  serving-man;  nor  was 
he  able  to  console  himself  for  the  poverty  of  the  menu  by  a 
desperate  recourse  to  the  bottle ;  for  the  vintages  whicb  the 
ancient  doled  011+  to  him  were  of  so  thin  and  sour  a  character, 
that  he  was  inclmed  to  think  the  still  hock  was  more  nearly  re- 
lated to  the  dowager's  own  peculiar  brand  of  cider  than  that 
lady  would  have  cared  to  acknowledge.  He  ate  his  dinner, 
however,  or  made  bleieve  to  eat,  witli  a  cheerful  countenance, 
heroically  concealing  the  anguish  that  gnawed  him  within,  and 
did  his  best  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  Lady  Paulyn,  who  was 
a  strong-minded  old  woman,  read  every  line  of  the  Times  news- 
paper daily,  and  was  up  in  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  money 
market,  being  much  given  to  the  shifting  of  her  investments, 
and  to  cautious  little  speculations  and  dabblings  on  her  own 
account.  The  Yicar,  who  never  had  sixpence  to  invest,  found  it 
rather  uphill  work  to  discuss  foreign  loans,  Indian  irrigation 
companies,  and  American  railways  with  this  astute  financier, 
and  was  glad  when  the  conversation  drifted  into  a  political 
channel,  when  the  dowager  proclaimed  herself  an  advanced 
liberal,  with  revolutionary  notions  about  the  income-tax. 

He  was  hardly  sorry  when  they  all  left  the  table  together, 
after  a  small  ration  of  very  indifferent  cofiee  had  been  served  out 
by  the  ancient,  "  in  the  nice  friendly  continental  fashion,"  as  the 
dowager  remarked  with  a  sprightly  air,  and  he  found  a  quiet 


Stranrjers  and  Pilgrims.  113 

little  dark  corner  in  the  drawing-room — dimly  illumined  with  two 
pair  of  sallow-comjilesioned  candles,  which  gave  a  sickly  light, 
as  if  just  recovered  from  the  jaundice — where  he  sank  into  a 
peaceful  and  soothing  slumber,  while  Lady  Paulyn  played  fox- 
and-geese  with  Mrs.  Chevenix,  who  was  enraptured  by  this 
small  token  of  favour  from  the  dowager.  Lord  Taulyn  insisted 
upon  playing  bezique  in  a  remote  corner  with  Elizabeth,  leaving 
Diana  and  Hilda  to  languish  in  solitude  on  one  of  the  Grecian 
couches,  Diana  making  feeble  little  attempts  at  conversation, 
which  Miss  Disney  would  neither  encourage  nor  assist. 

Bezique,  which  neither  of  the  players  cared  about  playing, 
afforded  a  delightful  opportunity  for  flirtation,  in  a  shadowy 
corner,  where  the  four  languishing  candles  made  darkness 
visible ;  and  it  was  an  opportunity  which  Lord  Paulyn  contrived 
to  make  the  most  of.  Yet  he  was  careful,  withal,  not  to  com- 
mit himself  to  anything  serious.  There  was  always  plenty  of 
time  for  that  kind  of  thing,  and  he  had  some  years  ago  made  up 
his  mind  never  to  marry,  unless  marriage  should  offer  itself  to 
him  backed  by  very  substantial  advantages  in  the  way  of 
worldly  wealth.  But  this  girl,  this  country  parson's  daughter, 
had  attracted  and  fascinated  him  as  no  other  woman  had  ever 
done.  He  had,  indeed,  from  his  boyhood  cherished  an  antipa- 
thy to  feminine  society,  preferring  to  take  his  ease  in  a  public 
billiard-room  or  a  stable-yard,  rather  than  to  sacrifice  to  the 
graces  of  life  in  a  drawing-room  or  boudoir.  He  was  not  in 
the  least  degree  like  that  typical  Frenchman  of  modern  French 
novels  who  spends  his  forenoon  in  an-aying  himself  like  the 
lilies  of  the  field,  and  then  sallies  forth,  combed  and  curled  and 
perfumed,  to  languish  in  the  boudoir  of  the  young  Marquise  de 
la  Eochevielle  till  dinner-time,  and  after  dinner  elaborately  at 
the  Cafe  Eiche,  repairs  to  the  side-scenes  of  some  easy-going 
theatre,  to  worship  at  the  shrine  of  Mademoiselle  Battemain  the 
dancer ;  thus  employing  his  life  from  morn  till  midnight  in  the 
cultivation  of  the  tender  passion. 

JSTot  often  did  Keginald  Paulyn  meet  with  a  woman  whose 
society  he  considered  worth  having ;  but  there  was  in  Eliza- 
beth's manner  something  that  charmed  him  almost  as  much  as 
her  beauty.  She  was  so  perfectly  at  her  ease  with  him  ;  showed  at 
times  an  insolent  depreciation  of  him,  which  was  refresliing  by 
its  novelty ;  received  his  adulation  with  such  an  air  of  divine 
right,  that  he  felt  a  delightful  sense  of  security  in  her  society. 
She  was  not  trying  to  captivate  him,  like  almost  all  the  other 
young  women  of  his  acquaintance.  Her  mind  was  not  filled  to 
the  brim  with  the  one  fact  that  he  was  the  best  match  of  the 
season. 

"  Do  you  think  your  father  would  let  you  ride,"  he  asked, 
•*  if  I  were  to  prt  a  couple  of  horses  at  your  disposal,  and  a 


114  iitrangers  and  Pilgrims. 

steady-going  old  groom  I've  got  down  here,  who'd  take  no  end 
of  care  of  you  ?  " 

"If'.m  qiaite  sure  papa  would  not;  and  even  if  he  would,  I 
have  no  time  for  riding." 

"No  time!  Why,  what  can  you  find  to  occupy  you  down 
here?" 

"  I  have  my  poor  people  to  visit." 

"  "What ! "  exclaimed  the  Viscount,  with  a  look  of  mingled 
disgust  and  mortilication,  "  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you 
go  in  for  that  kind  of  thing?  I  thought  your  eldest  sister  did 
it  all." 

"  I  don't  see  why  my  sister  should  have  a  copyright  in  good 
works." 

"  No ;  hut,  really,  I  thought  it  was  quite  out  of  your  line."_ 

"  Thanks  for  the  compliment.  But,  you  see,  I  am  not  quite 
80  bad  as  I  se«m.  I  have  taken  to  visiting  some  of  papa's  poorer 
parishioners  lately,  and  I  have  found  the  work  much  pleasanter 
than  I  fancied  it  would  be." 

"  Oh,  you  have  taken  to  it  lately,"  said  Lord  Paulyn,  with  a 
moody  look.  "  I  suppose  it  was  that  tall  Curate  who  put  it  into 
your  head  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  was  Mr.  Forde  who  first  awakened  me  to  a  sense  of 
my  duty,"  replied  Elizabeth  fearlessly. 

"  How  long  has  he  been  here,  that  fellow  ?" 

"AYhat  fellow?" 

"The  Curate." 

"  Mr.  Forde  has  been  with  us  nearly  two  years." 

After  this  the  conversation  languished  a  little,  while  Lord 
Paulyn  meditated  upon  the  possibilities  with  regard  to  Miss 
Luttrell  and  her  father's  Curate.  She  had  flashed  out  at  him  so 
indignantly  just  now,  as  if  his  disrespectful  mention  of  this 
man  were  an  offence  to  herself.  He  determined  to  push  the  ques- 
tion a  little  closer. 

"  I  daresay  he's  a  very  decent  fellow,"  he  said ;  "  but  I  could 
never  make  much  way  with  men  of  that  kind.  They  seem  a 
distinct  breed  somehow,  like  the  zebra.  However,  I've  no  doubt 
he's  a  well-meaning  fellow.  I  thought  he  seemed  rather  sweet 
upon  your  eldest  sister." 

Elizabeth  gave  a  liittle  scornful  laugh. 

"  Mr.  Forde  is  not  sweet  upon  any  one,"  she  answered ;  "  he  is 
a  priest  for  ever,  alter  the  order  of  Melchisedec  ;  or  after  a  more 
severe  order,  for  I  beleve  that  matrimony  was  not  forbidden  to 
that  ancient  priesthood.     Mr.  Forde  sets  his  face  against  it." 

"  An  artful  dodge  upon  his  part,  perhaps,"  said  the  Viscountv 
doubtfully.  "  I  daresay  he  is  lying  in  wait  for  a  wife  worth 
having." 

His  keen  eyes  surveyed  Elizabeth's  face  with  a  searching  gaze. 


Strangert  and  Pilgrims.  115 

but  could  not  read  the  mystery  of  that  splendid  countenance. 
He  would  have  gone  on  talking  about  the  Curate,  but  she  checked 
him  with  an  authoritative  air. 

"  I  wouldn't  trouble  myself  to  discuss  Mr.  Forde's  inclina- 
tions, if  I  were  3'on,"  she  said ;  •'  you  have  confessed  your 
inability  to  sym])athise  with  that  kind  of  person.  He  is  a  noble- 
minded  man,  who  has  marked  out  a  particular  line  of  life  for 
himself.     There  is  nothing  in  common  between  you  and  him." 

"  Candid,"  said  the  Viscount,  with  a  careless  laugh,  "  but  not 
complimentary.  No,  I  don't  suppose  my  line  of  life  is  what 
you'd  call  noble-minded ;  but  I  mean  to  win  a  Derby  before  I 
die;  and  I  mean  to  win  something  else  too" — this  with  the 
bright,  red-brown  eyes  full  upon  her  face — "  if  I  make  up  my 
mind  to  go  in  for  it." 

The  wagonette  was  announced  at  this  juncture,  and  Mr. 
Luttrell  awoke  from  refreshing  slumbers  to  gather  his  woman- 
kind around  him,  and  depart  from  the  halls  of  Ashcombe,  rejoic- 
ing in  his  soul  at  this  release. 

"  Thank  goodness  that's  over ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  settled 
himself  in  a  corner  of  the  wagonette,  half-smothered  by  his 
sister's  am;)le  draperies  and  cashmere  shawl;  "  and  if  ever  Lady 
Paulyn  catches  me  trusting  myself  to  her  hospitality  again,  she 
may  give  me  as  miserable  a  dinner  as  she  gave  me  to-day." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Wilmot,  I  believe  you  are  the  most  short- 
eighted  of  created  beings,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chevenix,  with  a  pro- 
found sigh. 

"  It  would  have  required  an  uncommonly  long  sight  to  see  any- 
thing fit  to  eat  at  that  dinner,"  answered  Mr.  Luttrell.  "  Supper 
is  a  meal  to  which  I  have  a  radical  objection ;  but  if  there's  any- 
thing edible  in  the  house  when  we  get  home  to-night,  I  shall  be 
strongly  tempted  to  submit  my  digestion  to  that  ordeal." 

"  I'm  sure  I  could  eat  half  a  barrel  of  oysters,"  exclaimed 
Diana,  with  a  weary  air.  "  I  never  went  through  such  a  day  in 
my  hfe.  It's  all  very  fine  for  aunt  Chevenix  and  Lizzie  to  be 
puffed  up  with  the  idea  of  having  made  a  conquest,  liut  anybody 
can  see  that  Lord  Paulyn  is  a  professed  flirt,  and  that  his  inten- 
tions are  as  meaningless  as  they  can  be." 

"  These  are  questions,"  said  aunt  Chevenix,  with  dignity, 
"which  time  alone  can  solve.  I  think  we  have  had  an  extremely 
pleasant  day,  and  that  Lady  Paulyn  is  a  woman  of  wonderful 
force  of  character.  Eccentric,  I  admit,  and  somewhat  close  ia 
her  domestic  arrangements — I'm  afraid  my  cap  was  on  one  side 
all  the  evening,  from  the  inadequacy  of  light  on  the  toilet-table 
when  I  dressed  for  dinner — but  a  very  remarkable  woman." 

"  That's  a  safe  thing  to  say  of  anybody,  aunt,"  rephed  Ehza- 
beth.     "  Mrs.  Brownrigg,  who  starved  her  apprentices  to  death 
was  a  remarkable  woman." 


116  Strangers  and  Pilgrhnt. 


CHAPTER  X. 

••  Who  knows  what's  fit  for  us  ?    Had  fate 

Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 
My  being — had  I  sign'd  the  bond — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 
Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-descried." 

Whether  Lord  Paulyn's  attentions  were  indeed  meaningless,  or 
whether  serious  intentions  tending  towards  mati-imoiiy  hirked 
behind  them,  was  a  question  whose  solution  Time,  the  revealer 
of  all  secrets,  did  not  hasten  to  afford.  The  Viscount  spent 
about  three  weeks  in  Devonshire,  during  which  period  he  con- 
trived to  see  a  good  deal  of  the  Vicarage  people — calling  at  least 
twice  a  week,  upon  one  pretence  or  another,  and  dragging  out 
each  visit  to  its  extremest  length.  He  was  not  an  intellectual 
person,  and  had  contrived  to  exist  since  the  conclusion  of  his 
university  career  without  opening  a  book,  except  only  such 
volumes  as  could  assist  him  in  the  supervision  of  his  stables,  or 
aid  his  calculations  as  a  speculator  on  the  turf.  His  conversa- 
tion was  therefore  in  no  manner  enlivened  or  adorned  by  the 
wit  and  wisdom  of  others ;  but  he  had  a  little  stock  of  anec- 
dotes and  reminiscences  of  his  career  in  the  fashionable  world, 
and  of  the  "  fellows"  he  had  encountered  there,  wherewith  to 
entertain  his  hearers.  He  had  also  a  yacht,  the  Pixy,  whose 
performances  were  a  source  of  interest  to  him,  and  whicli 
afforded  an  occasional  variety  to  his  stable-talk.  In  fact,  he 
made  himself  so  agreeable  in  a  general  way,  during  his  visits  to 
the  Vicarage,  that  Mrs.  Chevenix  pronounced  him  the  most 
entertaining  and  original  young  man  it  had  ever  been  her  good 
fortune  to  encounter. 

Elizabeth  was  not  always  at  home  when  he  called,  but  lie 
contrived  to  spin-out  his  visit  until  her  return ;  an  endeavour 
in  which  he  was  much  assisted  by  Mrs.  Chevenix,  who  took  care 
to  acquaint  him  with  her  disapproval  of  this  parish  work,  and 
licr  fear  that  dear  Elizabeth  was  undermining  her  health  by 
these  pious  labours. 

"  If  slie  weije  an  ordinary  girl,  I  should  regard  the  thinfi^  iu 
quite  another  light,"  said  aunt  Chevenix;  "but  Elizabeth  is 
not  an  ordinary  girl."  An  opinion  in  which  the  Viscount  con- 
cun-ed  with  enthusiasm. 

"  It's  all  that  Curate's  doing,"  he  said.  "  Why  don't  you 
use  your  influence  against  that  fellow,  Mrs.  Chevenix?  " 

"  0,  you're  jealous  of  the  Curate,  arc  you?  "  tlionght  the 
matron;  "  then  perhaps  we  can  bring  you  on  a  little  faster  by 
ttiat  means."' 


Strangers  and  Pilgrmt.  117 

She  gave  a  plaintive  sigh,  and  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"  I  regret  to  say  that  my  influence  goes  for  nothing  when 
Mr.  Forde  is  in  question,"  she  said.  _"  He  has  contrived  to 
impress  Elizabeth  with  the  idea  that  he  is  a  kind  of  saint." 

"  You  don't  think  she  cares  for  him?"  asked  the  Viscount 
eagerly. 

"  Not  in  the  vulgar  worldly  sense  of  the  words,  dear  Lord 
Paulyn,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix ;  "  but  she  has  a  sensitive  impres- 
sionable nature,  and  he  has  contrived  to  exercise  an  influence 
which  sometimes  alarms  me.  She  is  a  girl  who  would  hardly 
astonish  me  if  she  were  to  go  over  to  Eome,  and  immure  her- 
self for  life  in  a  convent." 

"  That  would  be  a  pity,"  said  the  Viscount;  "  and  it  would 
be  a  greater  pity  if  she  were  to  marry  some  stick  of  a  curate." 

Bu-t  he  did  not  commit  himself  to  any  stronger  expression 
than  this ;  and  he  left  Devonshire  without  making  Elizabeth 
Luttrell  an  oflfer:— a  fact  which  gave  rise  to  a  few  sisterly 
sarcasms  on  the  part  of  Gertrude  and  Diana.  Blanche  was 
more  good-natured,  and  was  really  desirous  of  having  a  noble- 
man for  her  brother-in-law. 

But  before  he  departed  from  his  native  place  Lord  Paulyn 
dined  two  or  three  times  at  the  Vicarage,  having  hung  about 
late  in  the  afternoon  in  such  a  manner  as  to  invite  Mr.  Luttrell's 
hospitality.  "  I  don't  much  wonder  that  he  shirks  his  mother's 
dinners,"  remarked  that  short-sighted  incumbent;  nor  did  he 
eee  any  special  cause  for  self-gratulation  when  the  Viscount 
spent  his  evenings  in  hanging  over  tho  piano  while  Elizabeth 
sang,  or  in  teaching  her  the  profound  theories  of  ecarte. 

If  the  Vicar  was  slow  to  perceive  anything  pecuhar  in  this 
gentleman's  conduct,  there  were  plenty  of  more  acute  observers 
in  Hawleigh  who  kept  a  record  of  his  movements,  and  told  each 
otber  over  afternoon  teacups  that  Lord  Paulyn  must  be  smitten 
by  one  of  the  Vicarage  girls. 

Before  the  young  man  had  left  the  neighbourhood,  this 
rumour  had  reached  the  ears  of  Malcolm  Forde. 

He  heard  this  scrap  of  gossip  with  a  somewhat  bitter  smile, 
remembering  the  Sunday  luncheon  at  the  Vicarage,  and  to 
whom  the  Viscount's  attention  had  been  exclusively  given. 

"  I  am  hardly  sorry  for  it,"  he  said  to  himslef.  "  God  knows 
that  I  have  fought  against  my  own  folly  in  loving  her  so 
dearly — loving  her  with  no  higher  hope  or  thought  than  a 
passionate  delight  in  her  beauty,  a  blind  worship  of  herself,  a 
sinful  indulgence  for  her  very  faults,  which  have  seemed  in  her 
so  many  additional  charms;  knowing  her  all  the  while  to  be  the 
last  of  women  to  help  me  on  in  the  path  that  I  have  chosen  for 
myself,  the  very  woman  to  hold  me  backward,  to  keep  me  down 
by  the  dead  weight  of  her  worldliness.     I  shall  have  reason  to 


lis  Strangers  and  Pilgrim*. 

be  grateful  to  Lord  Paulyn  if  he  comes  between  us,  and  makes 
a  sudden  end  of  my  madness." 

Yet,  with  a  curious  inconsistency,  wben  the  Curate  met 
Elizabeth  in  one  of  the  cottages,  he  saluted  her  with  so  gloomy 
a  brow  and  so  cold  an  air  that  the  girl  went  home  miserable, 
wondering  how  she  had  oftended  him.  That  he  could  be 
jealous  was  an  idea  that  never  entered  into  her  mind,  for  she 
had  never  hoped  that  he  loved  her.  She  went  home  that  after- 
noon thinking  him  the  coldest  and  hardest  of  mankind — a  man 
whose  gloomy  soul  no  act  of  submission  could  conciliate ;  went 
home  and  avenged  herself  for  that  outrage  by  a  desperate 
flirtation  with  the  Viscount,  who  happened  to  eat  his  farewell 
dinner  at  the  Vicarage  that  evening. 

Lord  Paulyn  departed  and  made  no  sign :  yet  it  is  certain 
that  he  left  Hawleigh  as  deeply  in  love  with  Elizabeth  Luttrell 
as  it  was  in  his  nature  to  love  any  woman  upon  this  earth. 
But  he  was  a  gentleman  of  a  somewhat  cold  and  calculating 
temper,  and  was  supported  and  sustained  in  all  the  events  of 
life  by  an  implicit  belief  in  his  own  merits,  and  the  value  of  his 
position  and  surroundings.  He  was  not  a  man  to  throw  himself 
away  lightly.  Elizabeth  was  a  charming  girl,  and,  in  his 
opinion,  the  handsomest  woman  he  had  ever  seen,  and  the  very 
fittest  to  lend  a  grace  and  glory  to  his  life  in  the  eyes  of  his 
fellow-men — a  wife  he  might  be  proud  to  see  pointed  out  as  hia 
property  on  racecources,  or  on  the  box-seat  ot  his  drag,  as  his 
favourite  team  drew  themselves  together  for  the  start,  on  a 
field-day  at  Hyde-park  Corner.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
was  no  denying  that  such  a  match  would  be  a  very  paltry 
alliance  for  him  to  make,  bringing  him  neither  advantageous 
connections  nor  addition  to  his  fortune ;  and  if  on  sober  reflec- 
tion, at  a  distance  from  the  object  of  his  passion,  he  found  that 
he  could  live  without  Elizabeth  Luttrell,  why  he  might  have 
reason  to  congratulate  himself  upon  his  judicious  withdrawal 
that  too  delightful  society. 

"  Mind,  I  shall  expect  to  see  you  in  town  early  in  the  season," 
he  said  to  Elizabeth,  when  making  his  adieux.  A  speech  which 
he  felt  committed  him  to  nothing. 

"You  mustn't  forget  your  promise  to  show  us  the  university 
boat-race,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix  with  her  vivacious  air. 

She  felt  not  a  little  disappointed  that  nothing  more  decisive 
liad  come  of  the  young  man's  admiration ;  that  he  should  be 
able  thus  to  tear  himself  away  unfettered  and  uncompromised. 
She  had  fondly  hoped  that  he  would  linger  on  at  Ashcombe  till 
in  some  impassioned  moment  he  should  cast  his  fortunes  at  the 
feet  of  his  enchantress.  It  was  somewhat  bitter  therefore  to 
see  him  depart  in  this  cool  manner,  with  only  vague  anticipa- 
tions of  possible  meetinits  during  the  London   season.     I^IrB. 


Strangerg  and  'JPilgrims.  119 

Chevenix  was  well  aware  of  a  fact  which  the  Viscount  pre- 
tcuded  to  ignore,  namely,  that  her  set  was  not  his  set,  and  that 
it  was  only  by  means  of  happy  accidents  or  diplomatic  struggles 
that  she  and  her  niece  could  hope  to  meet  him  in  society. 

"  But  he  will  call,  no  doubt,"  she  said  to  herself,  having  taken 
es,pecial  care  to  furnish  him  with  her  address. 

Elizabeth  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief  as  the  Vicarage  door 
closed  for  the  last  time  upon  her  admirer.  She  had  been  grati- 
fied by  his  admiration,  she  had  listened  to  him  with  an  air  of 
interest,  had  brightened  and  sparkled  as  she  talked  to  him ;  but 
it  was  dull  work  at  the  best.  There  was  no  real  sympathy,  and 
it  was  an  unspeakable  relief  to  know  that  he  was  gone. 

"  Thank  heaven  that's  over!  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  and  now  I  can 
live  my  own  life  again." 

After  the  Viscount's  departure  Mrs.  Chevenix  began  to  find 
life  at  Hawleigh  a  burden  too  heavy  for  her  to  bear.  The  cere- 
monial call  which  she  and  her  two  nieces  had  made  at  Ashcombe 
about  a  week  after  the  dinner  there,  had  resulted  in  no  new 
invitation,  nor  in  any  farther  visit  from  Lady  Paulyn.  Intimacy 
with  the  inexorable  dowager,  which  aunt  Chevenix  had  done  her 
utmost  to  achieve,  was  evidently  an  impossibilit}'.  So  about  a 
'veek  before  Christmas  Mrs.  Chevenix  and  her  coniidential  maid 
lelt  the  Vicarage,  to  the  heartfelt  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Luttrell'a 
household,  and  not  a  little  to  the  relief  of  that  hospitable  gentle- 
man himself. 

December  was  nearly  over.  A  long  dreary  month  it  had 
seemed  to  Elizabeth;  and  since  that  Sunday  luncheon  at  which 
Lord  Paulyn  had  assisted,  Malcolm  Forde  had  paid  no  visit  to 
the  Vicarage.  EHzabeth  had  seen  him  two  or  three  times  in 
the  course  of  her  district-visiting,  and  on  each  occasion  he 
had  seemed  to  her  colder  and  sterner  of  manner  than  on  the  last. 

Gertrude  was  the  only  member  of  the  family  who  made  any 
remark  upon  this  falling  away  of  Mr.  Porde's.  The  Vicar  knew 
that  he  worked  harder  than  any  other  labourer  who  had  ever 
come  into  that  vineyard,  and  was  not  surprised  that  he  should 
lack  leisure  for  morning  calls;  nor  had  he  ever  been  a  frequent 
visitor  at  the  Vicarage.  But  Gertrude  remarked  with  an  injured 
air  that  of  late  he  had  ceased  from  calling  altogether. 

"  I've  no  doubt  he  heard  that  Lord  Paulyn  was  always  here," 
she  observed ;  "  and  of  course  that  kind  of  society  would  not  be 
likely  to  suit  him." 

"  i  can't  see  that  papa's  curates  have  any  right  to  select  our 
society  for  us,"  exclaimed  Blanche,  tiring  up  at  this.  "Lord 
Paulyn  was  no  particular  favourite  of  mine,  for  he  used  to  take 
about  as  much  notice  of  me  as  if  I  were  a  chair  or  a  table ;  and 
Mr.  Forde  is  always  nice ;  but  still  I  can't  see  that  he  has  anj 
right  to  object  to  our  visitors," 


120  Siravf/ers  and  Pilgrvnis. 

"  No  one  spoke  of  such  a  right,  Blanche,"  answered  her  eldest 
sister ;  "  but  Mr.  Forde  is  free  to  select  his  own  society,  and  it 
is  only  natural  that  he  should  avoid  a  person  of  Lord  Paulyn'a 
calibre." 

Elizabeth  felt  this  defection  keenly.  It  was  not  as  if  she  had 
neglected  her  duties,  or  fallen  away  from  the  right  path  in  any 
palpable  manner.  She  had  gone  on  with  her  work  unflinchingly, 
even  when,  depressed  by  Ms  coldness,  her  spirits  had  flagged 
and  the  work  had  grown  wearisome.  She  had  been  constant  in 
her  attendance  at  the  early  services  on  dismal  winter  mornings, 
when  the  outer  world  looked  bleak  and  uninviting.  She  had 
struggled  to  be  good,  according  to  her  lights,  perceiving  no  sin- 
fulness in  that  flirtation  with  Lord  Paulyn,  which  had  helped  to 
fill  her  empty  life. 

She  missed  the  excitement  of  these  flirtatious  when  Lord 
Paulyn  was  gone.  It  was  all  very  well  to  declare  that  he  had 
bored  her,  and  to  express  herself  relieved  by  his  departure  ;  but 
she  missed  that  agreeable  ministration  to  her  vanity.  It  had 
been  pleasant  to  know,  when  she  made  her  simple  toilet  for  the 
home  dinner,  that  every  fresh  knot  of  ribbon  in  her  hair  made 
her  lovelier  in  the  eyes  of  a  man  whose  admiration  the  world 
counted  worth  winning — pleasant  to  discover  that  fascinations 
which  had  no  power  to  touch  the  cold  heart  of  Malcolm  Forde 
l^ossessed  an  overwhelming  influence  for  the  master  of  Ash- 
combe.  Yet  the  end  of  her  flirtation  with  the  Viscount  was 
hardly  less  humiliating  to  her  than  the  coldness  of  the  Curate. 
He  loved  and  he  rode  away.  She  began  to  think  that  she  had 
no  real  power  over  the  hearts  of  men;  that  she  could  only 
startle  and  bewitch  them  by  her  beauty ;  hold  them  for  but  the 
briefest  space  in  her  thrall. 

If  the  Viscount's  admiration  had  gone  a  step  farther,  and  he 
had  made  her  an  offer,  what  would  have  been  her  reply  ?  That 
was  a  question  which  she  had  asked  herself  many  times  of  late, 
and  for  which  she  could  find  no  satisfactory  answer.  The  pros- 
pect was  almost  too  dazzling  for  her  to  contemplate  with  a 
steady  gaze.  Had  not  a  brilliant  marriage  been  the  dream  of 
her  girlhood  ?  a  vision  first  evoked  by  some  prophetic  iitterances 
of  aunt  Chevenix,  when  Elizabeth  was  only  a  tall  slip  of  a  girl 
in  a  pinafore  practising  major  and  minor  scales  on  a  battered 
old  piano  in  the  school-room.  She  had  dreamed  of  horses  and 
carriages,  and  opera-boxes  and  country-seats,  from  the  hour 
when  she  first  learned  the  value  of  her  growing  loveliness  at  the 
feet  of  that  worldly  teacher.  All  that  wa-s  basest  in  her  nature, 
her  ignorant  yearning  for  splendour  and  pleasure,  her  belief  in 
her  divine  right  to  be  prosperous  and  happy,  had  been  fostered, 
half  unconsciously  perhaps,  by  aunt  Chevenix.  Mrs.  Luttrell 
vaa  the  weakest  and  simplest  of  women,  and  had  always  referred 


Strangers  and  Pilgriih^s.  121 

to  her  sister-in-law  as  the  very  oracle  of  social  existence,  and  had 
fondly  believed  in  that  lady  as  a  leader  of  London  fashion  to  her 
dying  day.  There  had  been  no  home  influence  in  the  Vicarage 
household  to  counteract  the  Chevenix  influence,  and  although 
Elizabeth  took  a  pride  in  defying  her  aunt  upon  occasions,  she 
was  not  the  less  her  faithful  disciple. 

Could  she  have  refused  such  an  offer  from  Lord  Paulyn  ? 
Could  she  of  her  own  free  will  have  put  aside  at  once  and  for 
ever — since  two  such  chances  would  hardly  come  in  her  obscure 
life— all  the  delights  and  triumphs  of  this  world,  all  the  pleasures 
she  had  dreamed  of?  It  hardly  seemed  possible  that  she  could 
have  been  so  heroic  as  to  say  no.  It  was  very  certain,  on  the 
jther  hand,  that  she  did  not  care  for  Keginald  Paulyn,  that  hia 
handsome  face  had  no  charm  for  her,  that  the  hngerinc^  clasp  of 
his  strong  hand  sent  no  thrill  to  her  heart,  that  his  society  after 
the  tirst  half-hour  became  a  bore  to  her.  It  was  quite  as  certain 
that  there  was  another  man  whose  coldest  look  quickened  the 
beating  of  her  heart,  whose  lightest  touch  had  a  magical  influ- 
ence ;  for  whose  sake  poverty  would  seem  no  hardship,  obscurity 
no  affliction ;  by  whose  side  she  could  have  felt  herself  strong 
enough  to  make  life's  pilgrimage  over  ever  so  thorny  a  road. 

"  i  could  hardly  have  been  so  demented  as  to  refuse  him," 
she  thought,  remembering  that  this  one  man  for  whom  she  could 
have  so  cheerfully  sa.riticod  all  her  visions  of  earthly  glory  had 
no  desire  to  profit  by  her  self-abnegation. 

Christmas  was  close  at  hand,  and  the  LuttreU  girls  were  busy 
from  morning  till  evening  with  the  decoration  of  the  two 
churches;  but  Eliz:abeth  performed  her  share  of  this  labour  with 
a  somewhat  listless  air,  and  did  a  good  deal  more  looking-on  than 
Gertrude  or  Diana  approved.  She  was  beginning  to  be  very  tired 
of  her  work,  tired  even  of  her  poor  people,  despite  their  afiection 
for  her.  It  seemed  altogether  such  a  dreary  business,  unchcered 
hj  ]\Ir.  Forde's  counsel  or  approbation ;  not  that  he  would  have 
withheld  his  counsel,  had  she  taken  the  trouble  to  ask  for  it ; 
but  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  do  that.  She  remembered 
that  October  day  in  the  Vicarage  garden  when  they  had  walked 
together  over  the  fallen  leaves,  while  autumn  winds  moaned  dis- 
mally, and  autumn  clouds  obscured  the  sun — that  day  when  they 
had  seemed  so  near  to  each  other,  and  when  the  dull  gray  world 
had  been  lighted  with  that  hght  that  never  was  on  sea  or  shore — 
the  light  of  a  great  joy.  What  would  she  not  have  done  for  hia 
sake,  if  he  had  only  taken  the  trouble  to  order  her.  If  he  had 
been  a  Redemptorist  father,  and  had  presented  her  with  a  cat- 
o'-nine-tails  wherewith  to  go  and  scourge  herself,  she  would  have 
taken  the  whip  from  him  with  a  smile,  and  departed  cheerfully 
to  do  his  bidding.  But  he  asked  no  more  from  her  than  from 
aiy  other  member  of  that  httle  baud  of  ladies  who  helped  him 


122  Birangers  and  Pilgrims. 

in  the  care  of  his  poor,  and  he  distinguished  her  from  that  littla 
band  only  by  his  pecuhar  coldness. 

Slie  flung  down  her  garland  of  ivy  and  holly  with  an  impatient 
air,  in  the  midst  of  a  little  cluster  of  ladies  working  busily  in  the 
vestry  of  St.  Clement's,  the  decorations  -whereof  were  but  half 
completed. 

"  I  shall  do  no  more,"  she  said;  "my  fingers  ache  and  smart 
horribly.  I  am  tired  of  the  whole  business ;  tired  of  parish  work 
altogether." 

Miss  Melvin  looked  up  at  her  friend  wonderingly,  -with  her 
meek  blue  eN'es. 

"  Why,  Lizzie,  I'm  surprised  to  hear  you  say  that,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Mr.  Forde  says  you  are  the  best  of  all  his  district- 
visitors,  because  you  are  sympathetic,  and  the  poor  people 
understand  you." 

"  I  feel  ver}'  much  honoured  by  his  praise,"  said  Elizabeth, 
with  a  scornful  hitle  laugh ;  "  but  as  he  has  never  taken  the 
trou.jle  to  give  me  the  slightest  encouragement  of  late,  I  begin 
to  find  the  work  a  little  disheartening." 

"  Elizabeth  has  an  insatiable  appetite  for  praise,"  remarked 
Gertrude;  "and  I  daresay  she  has  been  not  a  little  spoiled  by 
Lord  Paulyn's  absurd  flatteries." 

"You  have  been  rather  fortunate  in  escaping  that  kind  of 
contamination,  Gert)%"  replied  Elizabeth,  whose  temper  was  by 
no  means  at  its  best  on  this  particular  Christmas-eve ;  "  but  I 
assure  you  it  is  rather  nice  to  have  a  viscount  for  one's  slave." 

"  Even  when  his  bondage  sits  so  lightly  that  he  is  able  to 
shake  it  off  at  any  moment,"  said  Gertrude.  To  which  Eliza- 
beth would  have  no  doubt  replied,  but  for  the  sound  of  a  firm 
tread  upon  the  stone  threshold,  and  the  sudden  opening  of  the 
door,  which  had  been  left  ajar  by  the  busy  workers. 

It  was  Mr.  Forde  on  his  round  of  inspection.  Elizabeth  won- 
dered whether  he  had  overheard  that  shallow  unlaihdike  talk 
about  Lord  Paul}^.  She  picked  up  her  unfinished  garland,  and 
set  to  work  again  hurriedly,  glad  of  any  excuse  for  hiding  her 
face  from  his  cold  gaze. 

He  did  not  stop  long  in  the  vestry,  only  long  enough  for  a 
general  good-morning,  and  a  few  questions  about  the  decora- 
tions ;  nor  did  he  address  one  word  to  Elizabeth  Luttrell.  Her 
face  was  still  bent  over  her  work,  and  the  wounded  fingers  Avere 
moving  busily,  when  she  heard  the  door  shut  behind  him,  and 
his  departing  footstep  on  the  pavement  of  the  church. 

He  had  come  to  the  vestry-door  just  in  time  to  hear  EHzabeth's 
flippant  speech  about  Lord  Paulyn  ;  a  speech  which  to  his  mind 
Beemcd  to  reveal  the  utter  shallowness  and  worthlessness  of  the 
woman  he  had  suffered  himself  to  love. 

•*  And  yet  she  has  been  able  to  cheat  me  into  a  belief  in  the 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  12& 

latent  nobility  of  her  nature;  slie  has  been  able  to  bewilder  my 
reason  as  she  has  bewitched  my  heart,"  he  saidto  himself,  as 
he  walked  slowly  down  the  quiet  aisle,  and  out  into  the  bleak 
churchyard ;  "  as  she  has  distracted  me  from  hotter  thoughts 
and  higher  hopes,  and  has  been  an  evil  influence  in  my  life  from 
the  first  fatal  hour  in  which  I  let  her  creep  into  my  heart." 

Even  the  Vicar's  friendly  invitation  for  Christmas-day  waa 
rejected  by  I\Ir.  Forde.  He  would  have  been  very  happy  to  join 
that  agreeable  circle,  he  wrote,  but  it  was  a  pleasure  which  he 
felt  it  safer  to  deny  himself.  The  services  on  that  day  were 
numerous;  there  were  sick  people  he  had  promised  to  see  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  and  he  should  hardly  have  time  for  anything 
else,  and  so  on. 

He  spent  his  day  between  the  two  churches  and  those  sick- 
rooms, and  his  night  in  solitary  reading  and  meditation;  trying 
to  lift  his  soul  to  that  higher  level  whither  it  had  been  wont  to 
soar  before  an  earthly  passion  clogged  its  wings. 

That  he  would,  so  far  as  it  was  possible  to  him  in  his  position 
as  Mr.  Luttrell's  curate,  renounce  and  abjure  the  society  of 
Mr.  Luttrell's  daughter,  was  a  resolution  that  he  had  arrived  at 
very  promptly  on  hearing  the  town-talk  about  Lord  Paulyn's 
frequent  visits  at  the  Vicarage. 

"  I  will  not  trust  myself  near  her,"  he  said  to  himself.  _"  She 
has  deceived  me  in  the  past,  and  would  deceive  me  again  in  the 
future.  I  have  no  power  to  resist  her  witchery,  except  by  sepa- 
rating myself  from  her  for  ever." 

He  was  just  strong  enough  to  do  this;  he  had  just  sufficient 
force  of  will  to  avoid  the  siren.  Knowing  the  houses  in  which 
Bhe  was  most  likely  to  be  found,  her  customary  hours,  the  way 
she  took  iu  her  walks,  knowing  almost  every  detail  of  her  daily 
life,  and  how  easy  it  would  be  for  him  to  meet  her,  not  once  did 
he  swerve  from  the  rigid  line  which  he  had  marked  out  for  his 
conduct :  he  saw  the  famihar  figure  in  the  distance  sometimes, 
and  never  quickened  his  step  to  overtake  it.  He  heard  that  she 
was  expected  in  a  cottage  where  he  was  visiting,  and  hurried  his 
departure  straightway  rather  than  run  the  hazard  of  meeting 
her.  But  it  is  hardly  by  these  means  that  a  man  learns  to  for- 
get the  woman  he  loves.  It  is  a  kind  of  schooling  that  is  apt  to 
end  another  way.  Perhaps  no  man  ever  yet  forgot  by  trying  to 
forget :  but  he  is  on  the  highway  to  forgetfulness  when  he  tries 
to  remember. 

A  poison  had  entered  into  Malcolm  Forde's  Ufe.  That  sacred 
calling  which  demands  the  service  of  a  heart  nncorrupted  by 
earthly  passion  began  to  weigh  upon  him  like  a  bondage.  It 
was  not  that  he  was  in  any  manner  weary  of  his  office,  but 
rather  that  he  began  to  feel  himself  unfitted  for  it.  A  deadly 
iense  of  monotony  crept  into  his  mind.     He  began  to  doubt  hi? 


124  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

{)0wer8  of  usefulness ;  to  fancy  that  his  career  at  Hawleigh  •was 
ike  the  round  of  a  horse  in  a  mill,  grinding  on  for  ever,  and 
tending  towards  no  higher  result  than  that  common  daily  bread. 
The  natural  result  of  these  languors — these  painful  doubts  of  his 
own  worthiness — was  to  turn  his  thoughts  in  that  direction 
whither  they  had  turned  not  unfrequently  in  the  days  when  he 
had  been  better  contented  with  his  lot.  He  began  to  think  more 
seriously  than  ever  ujion  the  missionary  life  which  comes  nearer 
to  the  apostolic  form  of  service  than  the  smooth  pastures  of  the 
church  tit  home.  He  collected  all  the  information  he  could  ob- 
tain upon  this  subject;  wrote  to  men  who  had  the  work  at 
heart,  and  who  knew  where  a  worker  of  his  stamp  was  most 
wanted. 

"  I  have  a  vigorous  constitution,"  he  wrote  to  one  of  his  cor- 
respondents, "  and  have  hardly  ever  known  a  day's  illness.  I 
am  therefore  not  afraid  of  climate;  and  if  I  do  finally  determine 
to  go,  I  should  wish  to  go  where  such  labour  as  I  can  give 
would  be  of  real  value ;  where  a  weaker  man  might  be  unfit  to 
face  the  difficulties  and  dangers  which  I  feel  myself  qualified  to 
cope  with  and  overcome.  Do  not  think  that  I  am  boasting  of 
my  strength ;  I  only  wish  to  remind  you  that  my  former  pro- 
fession has  in  some  measure  inured  me  to  peril  and  hardship, 
and  that  I  should  be  glad  to  be  able  to  employ  some  of  thai; 
military  spirit  still  inherent  in  my  composition  in  the  nobler 
Bervice  to  which  it  is  now  my  privilege  to  belong.  I  want  to 
feel  mj'self  a  soldier  and  servant  of  Christ's  church  militant 
here  on  earth,  in  every  sense  of  the  word ;  and  I  do  not  m  my 
present  mood  find  the  work  of  a  rural  parish  adequate  for  the 
satisfaction  of  this  desire." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  'Tis  the  pest 
Of  love,  that  fairest  joys  give  most  unrest; 
That  things  of  delicate  and  tenderest  worth 
Are  swallow'd  all,  and  made  a  seared  dearth. 
By  one  consuming  flame  :  it  doth  immerse 
And  suffocate  true  blessings  in  a  curse. 
Half  happy,  by  comparison  of  bliss, 
Is  miserable." 

That  Christmas  at  Hawleigh  was  not  a  peculiarly  festive  season. 
Mr.  Luttrell  being  happily  rid  of  his  sister  was  indisposed  for 
farther  society,  preferring  to  bask  in  the  genial  glow  of  his 
liearth  untrammelled  by  the  duties  of  hospitality.  So  the  Lut- 
trel  girls  sat  round  the  fire  on  Christmas  evening  in  a  dismal 
circle,  while  their  father,  silent  and  motionless  as  the  sculptured 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  125 

figure  of  some  household  god,  slumbered  peacefully  in  his  easy- 
chair  behind  the  banner  screen  thai;  had  shaded  the  fair  features 
of  aunt  Chevenix. 

"  I  really  do  wish  that  boy-bal>y  had  lived,"  exclaimed  Blanche 
after  a  long  silence,  alluding  to  an  infant  scion  of  the  house  of 
Luttrell  which  had  jDerished  untimely.  "  Of  course,  I  know  he'd 
have  been  a  nuisance  to  us  all — brothers  always  are — but  still 
^e'd  have  been  something.  He  must  have  imparted  a  little 
variety  to  the  tenor  of  our  miserable  lives.  Paj)a  would  have 
been  obliged  to  send  him  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  where  he 
would  have  got  into  debt  for  shirt-studs  and  meerschaum  pipes 
and  things,  no  doubt ;  but  he  would  have  brought  home  nice 
young  men,  perhaps,  in  the  long  vacation,  and  that  would  be 
some  amusement.  He  might  have  touted  for  papa  in  a  gentle- 
manly way,  and  brought  home  young  men  to  be  coached." 

"  Blanche,"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  "  you  positively  grow  more 
revoltingly  vulgar  in  your  ideas  every  day." 

"  Let  the  poor  child  talk,"  cried  Diana,  with  a  stifled  yawn. 
"  I  wonder  she  has  spirit  enough  left  to  be  vulgar.  Any  inverte- 
brate creature  can  be  ladylike,  but  vulgarity  requires  a  certain 
amount  of  animal  spirits;  and  I  am  sure  such  a  miserable 
Christmas  as  this  is  a  damper  for  any  one's  vivacity." 

Elizabeth  said  nothing.  She  sat  on  a  low  seat  opposite  the 
fire,  motionless  as  her  slumbering  father,  but  with  her  great 
dark  eyes  wide  open,  gazing  dreamily  at  the  smouldering  yule 
log  which  dropped  its  white  ashes  slowly  and  silently  into  a 
deep  chasm  of  dull  red  coal.  She  had  sat  thus  for  the  last  half- 
hour  thinking  her  own  thoughts,  and  taking  no  part  in  her 
sisters'  desultory  snatches  of  talk. 

" '  She  sat  like  Patience  on  a  monument,  smiling  at  grief,'  " 
exclaimed  Diana  presently,  exasperated  by  this  silence.  "  Upon 
my  word,  Lizzie,  you  are  not  the  best  of  company  for  a  winter's 
ni-ht  by  the  fire." 

"  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  good  company,"  replied  Elizabeth 
(sr^lly. 

"  iicw  different  it  would  be  if  Lord  Paulyn  were  here  !  "  said 
Diana,  ryhose  temper  had  been  somewhat  soured  by  the  dreari- 
ness of  that  long  evening ;  "  then  you  would  be  all  smiles  and 
bewitc'.iment." 

*'  I  should  do  my  best  to  entertain  a  visitor,  of  course.  I  do 
Bict  consider  myself  bound  to  entertain  you." 

"  Poor  Lizzie,"  miirmured  Diana,  with  an  insolent  air  of  com- 
passion. "  We  ought  not  to  be  hard  upon  you.  It  is  rather  a 
trial  for  any  girl  to  have  a  coronet  dangled  before  her  eyes  in 
that  tantalising  manner,  and  nothing  to  come  of  her  conquest 
after  all!" 

"  Po  you  mean  to  say  that  I  ever  angled  for  Lord  Paulyn^" 

1 


126  Stranffers  and  JPilgrime. 

cried  Elizabeth,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  scornful  anger,  "  or  that 
I  could  not  have  him  if  I  chose?  " 

"  I  mean  to  say,"  replied  Diana,  in  a  provokingly  deliberate 
manner,  "  that  you  and  aunt  Chevenix  tried  your  very  hardest 
to  catch  him,  and  did  not  succeed.  Perhaps  you  look  forward 
to  seeing  him  in  London,  and  sulijugating  him  there;  but  \ 
fancy  that  if  a  woman,  cannot  bring  an  admirer  to  her  feet  in 
ihe  first  flush  of  her  conquest,  she  is  hardly  likely  to  bring  him 
ihere  later.  He  has  time  for  reflection  and  distraction,  you  see; 
md  a  man  who  has  snfiicient  prudence  tc  keep  himself  uncom? 
mitted  as  cleverly  as  Ijord  Paulyn  did,  would  be  the  very  man 
to  cure  himself  of  a  foolish  infatuation.  I  don't  mean  to  say 
anything  ofi'ensive,  but  of  course  a  marriage  with  one  of  us 
would  be  a  very  disadvantageous  alliance  for  a  man  in  his 
position." 

"  You  are  extremely  wise,  my  dear  Di,  and  have  acquired  your 
wisdom  in  the  bitter  school  of  experience.  But  I  doubt  if  you 
are  quite  infallible;  and  to  show  you  that  I  am  ready  to  back 
my  o])inion,  as  Lord  Paulyn  says,  I  will  bet  your  poor  dear 
mamma's  pearl  necklai;e,  my  only  valuable  possession,  that  if  he 
and  I  Uve  so  long,  I  will  be  Lady  Paulyn  before  next  Christ- 
mas-day." 

A  foolish  wager  to  make,  perhaps,  when  her  heart  was  given 
utterly  to  another  man;  but  these  little  sisterly  skirmishes 
always  brought  out  the  worst  points  in  Elizabeth's  character. 
She  had  been  thinking  too,  as  she  watched  the  softly-dropping 
ashes,  of  all  the  grandeurs  and  pleasures  with  which  she  might 
have  surrounded  herself  at  such  a  season  as  this,  were  she  the 
wife  of  Viscount  Paulyn ;  thinking  of  that  dismal  old  house  at 
Ashcombe,  and  the  transformation  that  she  might  effect  there; 
the  spacious  rooms  glowing  with  warm  light,  filled  with  pleasant 
people,  new  furniture,  splendid  draperies,  life  and  colour  through- 
out that  mansion,  where  now  reigned  a  death-Hke  gloom  and 
grayness,  as  if  the  du?t  of  many  generations  had  settled  and 
become  fixed  there,  covering  all  things  with  one  sombre  hue. 
These  visions  were  strangely  sweet  to  her  shallow  soul:  and 
mingled  with  the  thoughts  of  those  possible  triumphs  there  waa 
always  the  thought  of  Malcolm  Forde,  and  the  impression  that 
iuch  a  marriage  would  make  upon  him. 

"  He  would  see  that  at  least  some  one  can  care  for  me,"  she 
daid  to  herself;  "  that  if  I  am  not  good  enough  for  him,  I  may 
be  good  enough  for  his  superior  in  rank  and  fortune." 

And  then  came  a  vi.sion  of  that  tall  figure  and  grave  face 
among  the  witnesses  of  her  wedding.  He  would  take  his  sub- 
ordinate part  in  the  service,  no  doubt ;  "  by  the  Vicar  of  Haw- 
leigh,  father  of  the  bride,  assisted  by  the  Reverend  Malcolm 
Forde." 


SlrangerB  and  Pilgrinig.  127 

"  He  would  not  care,"  she  thought ;  "  he  would  not  even  be 
angry  with  me.  But  he  would  preach  me  a  sermon  about  my 
increa»;d  means  of  usefulness;  he  would  expect  me  to  become 
».  sister  of  mercy  on  a  wider  scale." 

After  that  joyless  Christmas-time  life  seemed  to  Elizabeth 
Luttrell  to  become  almost  intolerable  by  reason  of  its  dreariness- 
She  gave  up  her  spasmodic  attempts  at  active  usefulness  alto- 
gether. She  had  emptied  her  purse  for  her  poor ;  wearied  her- 
self in  going  to  and  fro  between  the  Vicarage  and  their  hovels; 
steeped  herself  to  the  lips  in  their  difficulties  and  sorrows,  and 
to  some  of  them  at  least  had  contrived  to  render  herself  very 
dear;  and  having  done  this,  she  all  at  once  abandoned  them, 
stayed  at  home  and  brooded  upon  her  vexations,  sat  for  long 
hours  at  her  piano,  playing  wild,  passionate  music,  which  seemed 
like  a  stormy  voice  answering  her  stormy  heart. 

"  Let  him  come  to  me  and  remonstrate  with  me  again,"  she 
said  to  herself,  looking  up  with  haggard  eyes  at  the  drawing- 
room  door,  as  if  she  expected  to  see  that  tall  figure  appear  at 
her  invocation.  "Let  him  come  to  reprove  me,  and  I  will  tell 
him  that  I  am  tired  of  working  without  any  earthly  reward ; 
that  I  have  neither  faith  nor  patience  to  labour  for  a  recom- 
pense that  I  am  only  to  win,  perhaps  half  a  century  hence, 
in  heaven.  And  who  knows  if  I  should  see  his  face  there, 
or  hear  Ids  voice  praising  me.'*" 

But  the  days  went  by,  and  Mr.  Forde  took  no  heed  of  thia 
second  defection. 

One  thing  only  gave  colour  to  Elizabeth's  life  in  this  hope- 
less time,  and  that  was  the  daily  service  in  the  big  empty 
church  of  St.  Clement's,  at  which  she  saw  the  cold  grave 
face  that  had  usurped  so  fatal  a  power  over  her  soul.  Once 
in  every  day  she  must  needs  see  him;  once  in  every  day  she 
must  needs  hear  his  voice;  and  it  was  to  see  and  hear  him 
that  she  rose  early  ou  those  cheerless  winter  mornings,  and 
ehared  the  devotions  of  a  few  feeble  old  women  in  poke  bonnets, 
and  a  sprinkling  of  maiden  ladies  with  frost-pinched  noses, 
showing  rosy-tipped  beneath  their  veils.  It  was  not  a  pure 
worship  which  was  wafted  heavenward  with  Elizabeth's  orisons  : 
rather,  no  worship  at  all,  but  an  impious  adoration  of  the 
creature  instead  of  the  Creator;  in  every  word  in  the  familiar 
prayers,  every  sentence  in  the  morning  lessons,  she  heard  the 
voice  of  the  man  she  loved,  and  nothing  more.  His  voice  with 
its  slow  solemn  depths  of  music;  his  face  with  its  earnest  eyes 
for  ever  overlooking  her.  These  were  the  sole  elements  of  that 
daily  service.  She  went  to  church  to  see  and  to  hear  Malcolm 
Forde,  and  knew  in  her  heart  of  hearts  that  it  was  for  this  alone 
she  went;  and  in  some  remorseful  moments  wondered  that 
Heaven's  swift  vengeance  did  not  descend  upon  so  impious  a 
creature. 


128  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

"  How  could  I  bear  my  life  if  I  were  married  to  ar.oLher  man, 
and  it  were  a  deadly  stn  to  tliiuk  of  him?  "  she  asked  herself, 
wonderingly;  and  then  argued  with  herself  that  in  an  utterly 
new  life,  a  life  filled  to  overflowing  with  the  pleasures  that  luid 
never  yet  been  within  her  reach,  pleasures  that  would  have  all 
the  freshness  and  delight  of  novelty,  she  must  surely  fini  it 
an  easy  matter  to  shut  Malcolm  Forde's  image  out  of  her 
heart. 

"  In  what  is  he  different  from  all  other  men  that  I  should  go 
on  lamenting  him  for  ever?  "  she  thought.  "  If  I  lived  in  the 
world,  I  should  meet  his  superiors  every  day  of  my  life.  But 
living  out  of  the  world — -seeing  only  such  people  as  Frederick 
Melvin  and  his  fellow-creatures — it  is  hardly  wonderful  that  I 
think  him  a  demi-god." 

And  then,  in  the  next  moment,  with  a  passionate  scorn  of  her 
own  arguments,  she  would  exclaim: — 

"  But  he  is  above  all  other  men  !  There  is  no  one  like  him  in 
that  great  world  I  am  so  ignorant  of.  Thei'e  is  no  one  else 
whose  coldest  word  could  seem  sweeter  than  the  praise  of  other 
men.  There  is  no  one  else  whose  very  shadow  ac^ross  my  path 
could  be  more  to  me  than  the  love  of  all  the  world  besides." 

In  this  blank  pause  of  her  life,  when  all  the  machinery  of  her 
existence,  which  had  for  a  long  time  been  gradually  growing 
abominable  to  her  by  reason  of  its  monotony,  seemed  all  at  once 
to  become  too  hateful  for  endurance;  like  a  long  dusty  road, 
which  for  a  certain  distance  the  pilgrim  treads  with  a  kind  of 
hopefulness,  until,  gruwn  footsore  and  weary  long  ere  the  end  of 
his  journey,  that  ioJg  white  road  under  the  broiling  sun,  those 
changeless  hedges,  that  pitiless  burning  sky,  become  an  affliction 
hardly  to  be  borne; — in  this  sudden  fiiilure  of  happiness  and 
Aope,  it  was  not  unnatural  that  Elizabeth's  eyes  should  turn 
with  some  kind  of  longing  to  the  dazzling  prospect  perpetuallj 
exhibited  to  them  by  aunt  Chevenix. 

"  Eemember,  my  dearest  Lizzie,"  wrote  that  lady,  wh  ose 
longest  epistles  were  always  addressed  to  Elizabeth — "  remember 
that  you  have  a  great  future  before  you,  and  pray  do  not  suffer 
yourself  to  be  depressed  bj"-  any  remarks  which  envy  or  vialice 
may  dictate  to  those  who  feel  themselves  your  inferiors  in  accom- 
plishments and  'personal  appearance.  Your  fate  is  in  your  own 
bands,  my  dearest  girl,  and  it  is  you  alone  who  can  hinder,  by  a 
foolish  preference,  of  which  I  cannot  think  with  common  patience, 
the  very  high  advancement  which  i/e^Z  assured  Fortune  holds  in 
reserve  for  you.     But  I  venture  to  ])elieve  that  your  absurd  aci' 

miration  of  Mr.  F is  a  thing  of  the  past.     Tliink,  my  love,  of 

the  delight  you  would  feel  in  being  mistress  of  a  brilliant  esta- 
blishment— in  finding  yourself  the  centre  of  an  aristocratic  and 
fashionable  circle,  invited  to  state  balls  and  royal  garden-partieg 
— and  then  contrast  this  picture  with  the  vision  of  some  obscpje 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  129 

Jtarsonage,  its  Sunday-school,  its  old  women  in.  black  bonaeta — 
hat  species  of  black  bonnet  which  I  imagine  must  be  a  natural 
product  of  the  soil  in  agricultural  districts,  so  inevitable  is  its 
appearance,  and  I  can  hardly  believe  there  are  people  still  living 
■who  would  voluntarily  make  a  thing  of  that  shape.  Look  upon 
this  picture,  my  dearest  girl,  and  then  on  that. — as  Pope,  or 
some  other  old-fashioned  writer,  has  observed, — and  let  reason  be 
vour  guide.  Easter,  I  am  pleased  to  see,  falls  early  this  year, 
by  which  means  we  shall  have  done  with  Lent  before  the  fin« 
M-eat?ier  begins.  I  shall  expect  you  as  soon  after  Easter  Sunday' 
as  your  papa  can  manage  to  bring  you." 

To  this  visit  she  looked  forward  as  a  release  from  that  life 
which  had  of  late  become  worse  than  bondage ;  but  even  in  this 
looking  forward  there  was  an  element  of  despair.  She  might 
have  balls  and  garden-parties,  and  pleasures  without  number; 
she  might  wear  fine  dresses,  and  sun  her  beauty  in  the  light  of 
admiring  eyes ;  but  she  would  see  Malcolm  Forde  no  more. 
Would  it  not  be  happier  for  her  to  be  thus  divided  than  to  see 
him  day  by  day,  and  every  day  become  more  assured  of  his  in- 
difference ?  Yes,  she  told  herself.  And  in  that  whirlpool  of 
London  life  was  it  likely  she  would  be  for  ever  haunted  by  his 
image  ? 

"  It  is  this  Mariana-in-the-moated-grange  kind  of  life  that  is 
killing  me,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  sat  by  her  turret  window, 
preferring  her  fireless  bedroom  to  the  society  of  her  sisters, 
watching  the  winter  rain  fall  slowly  in  the  drenched  garden,  and 
the  dripping  sun-dial  by  which  she  had  stood  so  often  talking  to 
Malcolm  Furde  in  the  summer  that  was  gone.  It  was  arranged 
that  Mr.  Luttrell  and  his  third  daughtm-  should  go  to  London 
on  the  30th  of  March,  the  Yicar  treating  himself  to  a  week's 
holiday  in  town,  after  the  fatigue  of  the  Easter  services ;  a  burden 
which  was  chiefly  borne  by  the  broad  shoulders  of  Malcolm 
Forde.  Towards  the  end  of  February,  therefore,  Elizabeth  was 
able  to  occupy  herself  with  the  pleasing  task  of  preparing  for 
the  visit;  a  business  which  involved  a  good  deal  of  dressmaking, 
and  a  greater  outlay  than  the  Vicar  approved.  He  grumbled 
and  endured,  however,  as  he  had  grumbled  and  endured  when 
Gertrude  and  Diana  spread  their  young  pinions  for  their  brief 
flight  into  those  fashionable  skies. 

"It  seems  a  nonsensical  waste  of  money,"  he  said,  with  a 
doleful  sigh,  as  he  wrote  a  final  clearingup  cheque  for  the 
Hawleigh  dressmaker,  "  and  I  don't  suppose  that  your  visit  will 
result  in  anything  more  than  your  sisters'  visits.  But  Maria 
would  lead  me  a  life  if  I  refuhcd  to  let  you  go." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  papa,"  exclaimed  Gertrude.  "  Praj  "i^ 
not  make  any  comjiarison  between  Elizabeth  and  us.  The 
belongs  to  quite  a  diti'erent  order  of  beings,  ^ud  is  sure  to  make 


130  Strangers  and  Filgrims. 

a  brilliant  match.  It  ia  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  world  can 
overlook  her  merits." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  the  Vicar,  with  a  rueful 
glance  at  the  figures  on  his  cheque;  "but  this  seems  a  large 
amount  to  pay  for  dressmaking.  1  think  girls  in  your  position 
— the  daughters  of  a  professional  man — ought  to  make  your 
own  gowns." 

"The  bill  isn't  all  for  dressmaking,  papa;  Miss  March  has 
found  the  material,"  said  Elizabeth,  waiving  the  question  of 
what  a  girl  in  her  position  ought  or  ought  not  to  do.  "The 
trimmings  are  rather  expensive,  perhajDs;  but  dresses  are  so 
much  trimmed  nowadays." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  hear  on  every  side,  when  I  complain  of 
my  bills,"  replied  the  Yicar.  "  Butcher's  meat  is  so  much 
dearer  nowadays,  says  the  cook;  fodder  has  risen  since  last 
month,  says  the  groom ;  Russia  is  consuming  our  coals,  and 
prices  are  mounting  daily,  says  the  coal-merchant.  But  un- 
happily my  income  is  not  so  elastic — that  is  a  fixed  quantity ; 
and  I  fear  the  time  is  at  hand  when  to  make  that  square  with 
our  necessities  will  be  something  hke  attempting  to  square  the 
circle." 

The  Luttrell  girls  were  accustomed  to  mild  wailings  of  this 
kind  when  the  paternal  cheque-book  had  to  be  produced,  and 
cheques  were  signed  as  reluctantly  as  if  they  had  been  death- 
warrants  waiting  for  the  sign-manual  of  a  tender-hearted  king; 
so  they  were  not  deeply  impressed  by  this  threat  of  future  des- 
titution. They  gave  their  minds  very  cheerfully  to  the  prepa- 
ration of  their  summer  clothing  ;  envied  Elizabeth  those  extra 
garments  provided  for  her  approaching  visit;  quarrelled  and 
made  friends  again  after  the  manner  of  sisters  whose  affection 
is  tempered  by  certain  individual  failings. 

Frivolous  as  the  distraction  might  be,  this  choosing  of  coloura 
and  materials,  and  trying-ou  of  new  apparel,  served  to  brighten 
the  bleak  days  of  a  blusterous  March  with  a  feeble  light. 
Elizabeth  thought  just  a  little  less  of  her  hopeless  wasted  love, 
while  Miss  March's  head  apprenti.Te  was  coming  to  the  Vicarage 
every  day  with  patterns  of  gimps  and  fringes  and  laces  and 
ruchings,  for  the  selection  whereof  all  the  sisters  had  to  be  con- 
vened like  a  synod.  Even  Gertrude  and  Diana  were  not  alto- 
gether ill-natured,  acd  gave  themselves  up  to  these  deliberations 
with  a  friendly  air ;  while  Blanche  Hung  herself  into  the  subject 
with  youthful  ardour,  and  wound  up  her  approval  of  every 
article  by  the  declaration  that  she  would  have  one  like  it  when 
she  went  to  aunt  Chevenix  for  her  London  season. 

"  Or  perhaps  you'll  be  married,  and  have  a  town-house, 
Lizzie,  and  I  shall  come  to  you ;  which  would  be  much  nicer 
than  being  under  aantie'n  thumb.     And  of  course  you'd  enjoy 


Strangers  and  Pilyrims.  131 

bringing  out  a  younger  sister.  Viscountess  Paulyn,  on  ter 
marriage,  by  Lucretia  Viscountess  Paulyn;  Miss  Blanche  Lutt- 
rell,  by  her  sister,  Viscountess  Paulyn.  Wouldn't  that  look 
well  in  the  local  pa^icrs  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XII. 

**  A  man  can  have  hut  one  life  and  one  death, 
One  heaven,  one  hell.     Let  me  fulfil  my  fate. 
Grant  me  my  heaven  now  !     Let  me  know  you  mine, 
Prove  you  mine,  write  my  name  upon  your  brow, 
Hold  you  and  have  you,  and  then  die  away, 
If  God  please,  with  completion  in  my  soul  I " 

Mr.  Forde's  letters  brought  a  more  definite  response  than  he 
had  looked  for.  One  of  the  chief  members  of  the  Society  for 
the  Propagation  of  the  Gospel  wrote,  strongly  urging  him  to 
lend  himself  to  that  vast  work.  It  was  just  such  men  as  he 
who  were  wanted,  and  the  need  for  such  was  great.  A  new 
mission  to  a  land  of  more  than  Cimmerian  darkness  was 
on  foot ;  the  harvest  was  ready ;  had  long  been  waiting  for  the 
sickle,  but  fitting  labourers  were  few.  The  letter  was  long  and 
eloquent,  and  went  home  to  Malcolm  Forde's  heart. 

From  the  first,  from  that  first  hour  in  which  the  slumbering 
depths  of  his  spirit  had  been  stirred  with  a  sudden  rush  of 
religious  enthusiasm — like  that  strange  ruffling  of  Siloam's 
still  waters  beneath  the  breath  of  God's  angel — from  that  iniliay 
hour  in  which,  beside  the  clay-cold  corpse  of  her  who  should 
have  been  his  wife,  he  dedicated  his  life  to  the  service  of  his  God, 
he  had  meant  to  do  soinethiiuj — to  make  a  name  which  should 
mark  him  out  from  the  unnoted  ranks  of  the  Church — to  ac- 
complish a  work  which  should  be  in  itself  the  noblest  monument 
that  he  could  raise  to  the  memory  of  his  lost  bride.  Not  in  a 
quiet  country  parish  could  he  find  the  fulness  of  his  desires.  It 
was  something  to  have  made  a  ripple  upon  this  stagnant  pool ; 
something  to  have  stirred  the  foul  scum  of  indifference  that  had 
defiled  these  tideless  waters.  But  having  done  this  successfully, 
having  awakened  new  life  and  vigour  in  this  slumberous  fioclii 
he  began  to  think  in  all  earnestness  that  it  was  time  for  him  to 
be  moving  forward.  The  life  here  was  in  no  manner  unpleasing 
to  him  ;  it  was  sweet  rather,  sweet  in  its  utter  peacefulness,  and 
the  i'ruition  of  all  his  present  desires.  He  knew  himself  beloved 
and  honoured;  knew  himself  to  have  acquired  unwillingly  the 
first  place,  and  not  the  second,  in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  thia 
congregation.  But  all  this  was  not  enough  to  the  man  wl^^ 
had  made  St.  Paul  his  tyjiical  churchman — to  the  mai.  who 


132  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

boasted  of  himself  as  a  soldier  aad  servant  of  Christ,  yer^' 
Bweet  was  this  pleasant  resting-place ;  very  dear  the  afFectioii 
that  greeted  him  on  every  side ;  the  blushing  cheeks  and  reve- 
rent eyes  of  school-children  hfted  to  him  as  he  went  along  the 
quiet  street ;  the  warm  praises  of  men  and  women ;  the  genial 
welcome  that  greeted  him  in  every  household ;  the  hushed  expec- 
tancy and  upward  look  of  rapt  attention  that  marked  hia 
entrance  to  the  pulpit.  But  precious  though  these  things  might 
be  to  him,  thej^  were  not  the  accomplishment  of  his  mission. 
It  was  as  a  pilgrim  he  had  entered  the  Church ;  a  teacher 
whose  influence  for  good  could  not  be  used  in  too  wide  a  field. 
Not  in  this  smooth  garden-ground  could  he  find  room  for  hia 
labour ;  his^  soul  yearned  for  the  pathless  forest,  to  stand  witt 
the  pioneer's  axe  on  his  shoulder  alone  in  the  primeval  wilder- 
ness, with  a  new  world  to  conquer,  a  new  race  of  men  to  gather 
into  the  fold  of  Christ. 

This  having  been  in  his  thoughts  from  the  very  first — a  desirfe 
that  had  mingled  with  his  dreams,  sleeping  and  waking,  from 
the  beginning— it  would  have  been  curiously  inconsistent  had 
he  shrunk  from  its  realisation  now.  And  yet  he  sat  for  a  long 
time  with  that  letter  in  his  hand,  deliberating,  with  a  painful 
perplexity,  on  the  course  which  he  should  take.  Nor  did  that 
lengthy  reverie  make  an  end  of  his  dehberation.  He  who  had 
been  won't  to  decide  all  things  swiftly  (his  Ufe-path  being  so 
narrow  a  thread,  leading  straight  to  one  given  point,  his  scheme 
of  existence  hardly  allowing  room  for  irresolution)  was  now 
utterly  at  fault,  tossed  upon  a  sea  of  doubt,  perplexed  beyond 
measure. 

Alas,  almost  unawares,  that  mathematically  adjusted  scheme 
of  his  existence  had  fallen  out  of  gear  :  the  wheels  were  clogged 
that  had  gone  so  smoothly,  the  machine  no  longer  worked  with 
that  even  swiftness  which  had  made  his  life  so  easy.  He  waa 
no  longer  able  to  concentrate  all  his  thoughts  and  desires  upon 
one  point,  but  was  dragged  to  this  side  and  to  that  by  contend- 
ing influences.  In  a  word,  he  had  given  himself  a  new  idol. 
That  idea  of  foreign  service,  of  toiling  for  his  Master  in  an  un- 
trodden world,  of  being  able  to  say,  "  This  work  is  mine,  and 
mme  only  !"  which  a  little  while  ago  had  been  to  him  so  ex- 
hilarating a  notion,  had  now  lost  its  charm. 

"  Never  to  see  her  any  more,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  not  even 
to  know  her  fate !  Gould  I  endure  that  P  O,  I  know  but  too 
well  that  she  is  not  worthy  of  my  love,  that  she  is  not  worthy 
to  divide  my  heart  with  the  service  of  my  God,  not  worthy  that 
for  her  sake  Ishouldbefalseto  the  vow  that  I  made  beside  Alice 
Fraser's  death-bed  ;  and  yet  I  cannot  tear  mjr  heart  away  from 
her.  Sometimes  I  say  to  myself  that  this  is  not  love  at  all, 
only  a  base  earthly  passion,  a  slavish  worship  of  her  beauty. 


Strangert  and  Pilgrims  133 

Soflietimea  I  half  bolieve  that  I  never  truly  loved  before,  that 
my  affection  for  Alice  was  only  a  sublimated  friendship,  that 
the  true  passion  is  this,  and  this  only." 

He  thought  of  David,  and  that  fatal  hour  in  which  the  King 
of  Israel,  the  chosen  of  the  Lord,  walked  alone  up  on  the  house- 
top, and  beheld  the  woman  whose  beauty  was  to  be  his  ruin ; 
thought  and  wondered  at  that  strange  solemn  story  with  its 
pathetic  ending.  Was  he  stronger  or  wiser  than  David,  when 
for  the  magic  of  a  lovely  face  he  was  ready  to  give  his  sovl 
into  bondage  ? 

For  three  days  and  three  nights  he  abandoned  himself  to  the 
demon  of  uncertainty ;  for  three  days  and  three  nights  he 
wrestled  with  the  devil,  and  Satan  came  to  him  in  but  too  fair 
a  guise,  wearing  the  shape  of  the  woman  he  loved.  In  the  end 
he  conquered,  or  believed  that  he  had  conquered.  There  was  no 
immediate  necessity  for  a  decisive  reply  to  that  letter,  but  he 
determined  to  accept  the  mission  that  had  been  offered  him ; 
and  he  began  to  make  his  arrangements  with  that  view. 

Having  once  made  up  his  mind  as  to  his  future,  it  was  of 
course  his  duty  to  communicate  that  fact  to  the  Vicar  without 
loss  of  time.  So  upon  the  first  evening  that  he  found  himself 
at  liberty,  he  walked  out  to  the  Vicarage  to  make  this  announce- 
ment. It  was  an  evening  in  the  middle  of  Mai'ch, — gray  and 
cold,  but  calm  witiial,  for  the  blusterous  winds  had  spent  their 
fury  in  the  morning,  and  there  was  only  a  distant  mysterious 
Bound  of  fitful  gusts  sweeping  across  the  moorland  ever  and 
anon,  like  the  sighing  of  a  discontented  Titan.  There  was  a 
dim  line  of  primrose  light  still  lingering  behind  the  western 
edge  of  the  hills  when  Malcolm  Forde  passed  under  the  Bar, 
and  out  into  the  open  country  that  lay  beyond  that  ancient 
archway.  He  looked  at  the  dim  gray  landscape  with  a  sudden 
touch  of  sadness.  How  often  had  his  eyes  looked  upon  these 
familiar  things  without  seeing  them !  The  time  might  soon 
come  when  to  remember  this  place,  in  its  quiet  English  beauty, 
would  be  positive  pain,  just  as  it  had  been  pain  to  him  some- 
times in  this  place  to  recall  the  mountains  and  the  lochs  ot 
his  native  land. 

"  If  I  could  but  have  lived  here  all  the  days  of  my  life  with 
Elizabeth  for  my  fellow-worker  and  companion ! "  he  thought. 
"  I  can  conceive  no  existence  happier  than  that,  if  I  could  be 
satisfied  with  small  things.  But  for  a  man  who  has  set  all  his 
hopes  on  something  higher,  surely  that  would  be  a  hving 
death.  I  should  be  stilled  in  the  languid  sweetness  of  such 
an  atmosphere." 

He  thought  of  himself  with  a  wife  and  children,  his  heart 
and  mind  fi^lled  with  care  for  that  dear  household,  all  his  desires, 
(dl  his  hopes,  all  his  fears  converging  to  that  one  centre— only 


134  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

the  remnant  of  his  intellectual  power  left  for  the  service  of  hia 
God. 

"A  man  cannot  serve  two  masters,"  he  said  to  himself. 
*'  Sweet  fancy,  sweet  dream  of  wife  and  home,  I  renounce  you  ! 
There  are  men  enough  in  this  world  with  the  capacity  for 
happiness.  The  men  who  are  most  needed  are  the  men  who 
can  do  without  it." 

The  Curate  stood  for  some  moments  before  the  Vicarage  gate 
with  a  thoughtful  air,  but  instead  of  opening  it,  walked  slowly 
on  along  the  waste  border-land  of  unkempt  turf  that  edged  the 
high-road.  Just  at  the  last  moment  that  new  habit  of  indecision 
took  hold  of  him  again.  He  had  hardly  made  up  his  mind 
what  to  say.  He  would  find  Mr.  Luttrell  with  his  daughters 
round  him  most  likely.  Elizabeth's  clear  eyes  would  peruse 
his  face  while  he  pronounced  his  sentence  of  banishment.  He 
was  not  quite  prepared  for  this  interview,  and  strolled  on 
meditatively,  in  the  cold  gray  twilight,  wondering  at  his  own 
Tinlikeness  to  himself. 

"  Will  she  be  sorry  ?  "  he  wondered,  "  just  a  little  grieved  to 
see  me  depart  out  of  her  life  for  ever?  I  remember  when  I 
Bpoke  of  my  missionary  schemes,  that  day  I  told  her  the  story 
of  my  life,  there  was  a  shocked  look  iu  her  face,  as  if  the  idea 
were  dreadful  to  her.  And  then  she  began  to  talk  of  mission- 
aries, with  the  air  of  a  schoolgirl,  as  a  low  sort  of  people.  She 
is  such  an  unanswerable  enigma.  At  times  deluding  one  into 
a  belief  in  her  soul's  nobility — at  other  times  showing  herself 
frivolous,  shallow,  empty  in  brain  and  heart.  Yet  I  think— after 
her  own  light  fashion — she  will  be  sorry  for  my  going." 

Then  arose  before  him  the  image  of  Lord  Paulyn,  and  the 
memory  of  that  Sunday  luncheon  at  the  Vicarage;  the  two 
faces  turned  towards  each  other— the  man's  face  ardent,  en- 
raptured— the  girl's  glowing  with  a  conscious  pride  in  its 
loveliness;  two  faces  that  were  of  the  earth,  earthy — a  brief 
scene  which  seemed  like  the  prelude  of  a  drama  wherein  he, 
Malcolm  Forde,  could  have  no  part. 

He  bethought  himself  of  that  mere  fragment  of  conversa- 
tion he  had  overheard  unawares  on  the  threshold  of  the  vestry, 
a  gush  of  girlish  confidence,  in  which  Elizabeth  had  boldly 
ipoken  of  the  Viscount *s  her  "  slave."  He  remembered  that 
common  talk  in  which  the  Hawleigh  gossips  had  coupled  Lord 
Paulyn's  narr.e  with  EUzabeth  Luttrell's,  and  he  thought,  with 
a  pang,  that  this  was  perhaps  the  future  which  awaited  her. 
He  thought  of  such  a  prospect  with  more  than  common  pain, 
a  pain  in  which  selfish  regret  or  jealousy  had  no  part.  He  had 
heard  enough  of  Lord  Paulyn's  career  to  know  that  the  woman 
who  married  him  would  prepare  for  herself  a  doubtful  future; 
in  all  likelihood  a  dark  and  stormy  one. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrivia.  135 

"  If  I  can  get  a  minute's  talk  alone  with  her  before  I  leave  thia 
place,  I  will  warn  her,"  he  said  to  himself;  "though.  Heaven 
knows,  if  her  heart  is  set  on  this  business,  she  is  little  likely  to 
accept  my  warning." 

He  wasted  half  an  hour  idling  thus  by  the  way  side,  anc^ 
in  all  that  time  had  been  thinking  wholly  of  Elizabeth,  iustea( 
of  pondering  on  what  he  should  say  to  her  father.  But  about 
that  there  need  be  no  difiiculty.  He  had  never  yet  found  him- 
self at  a  loss  for  words  :  and  though  Mr.  Luttrell  would  doubtless 
be  reluctant  to  lose  so  energetic  a  coadjutor,  his  affliction  wouW 
hardly  be  overwhelming.  There  was  always  a  fair  supply  of 
curates  in  the  ecclesiastical  market  of  various  qualities ;  indeed, 
the  supply  of  this  article  was  apt  to  be  in  excess  of  the 
demand. 

It  was  past  seven  when  Mr.  Forde  entered  the  Yicarage.  Th« 
six-o'clock  dinner  was  fairly  over,  the  lamp  lighted  in  the  long 
low-coiled  drawing-room,  the  four  girls  grouped  round  the  fire 
in  their  favourite  attitudes — Elizabeth  on  her  knees  before  the 
blaze,  gazing  into  the  heart  of  the  fire,  like  a  prophetess  intent 
on  reading  auguries  iu  the  coals.  She  started  to  her  feet  when 
the  servant  announced  Mr.  Forde,  but  did  not  leave  the  hearth 
to  greet  him,  though  her  three  sisters  crowded  eagerly  about 
him  to  give  him  a  reproachful  welcome. 

"  It  is  such  an  age  since  you  have  been  near  tib,"  said 
Gertrude,  almost  piteously.  "  1  cannot  think  what  we  have 
done  to  offend  you.  ' 

"  You  must  know  that  I  have  had  no  possible  roason  for 
being  offended,  dear  Miss  Luttrell,"  he  answered  cordially,  but 
with  his  glance  wandering  uneasily  towards  that  other  figure 
rooted  to  the  hearth.  "  Your  house  is  only  too  pleasant,  and  I 
have  had  very  little  time  for  pleasure.  I  see  your  papa  else- 
where; and  to  come  here  is  only  another  name  for  giving 
myself  a  holiday." 

Gertrude  cast  up  her  eyes  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy. 

"  AVhat  a  saint  you  are !"  she  exclaimed ;  "  and  what  a 
privilege  to  feel  your  blessed  influence  guiding  and  directing 
or.e's  feeble  efforts!  I  have  felt  myself  almost  miraculously 
assisted  in  my  poor  work  since  you  have  been  with  us,  and 
I  look  back  and  remember  my  previous  coldness  with  a  shudder." 

"  I  have  no  consciousness  of  my  saintship,"  said  Mr.  Forde, 
with  a  little  good-natured  laugh,  making  very  light  of  an  elderly- 
young  ladylike  worship  to  which  he  was  tolerably  accustomed. 
"  On  the  contrary,  I  have  a  strong  sense  of  being  very  human. 
But  I  am  glad  if  I  have  been  the  source  of  enthusiasm  in  you, 
and  trust  that  when  1  am  no  longer  here  to  guide  or  inspire — 
quite  unconsciouslf  again — you  will  not  be  in  any  danger  of 
falling  away.     But  I  do  not  fear  that  contingency  " — this  with 


136  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

a  somewhat  severe  pflance  in  the  direction  of  that  figui-e  by  the 
hearth—"  for  I  believe  that  you  are  thoroughly  in  earnest. 
Thei-e  is  no  such  thing  as  earnestness  without  constancy." 

Elizabeth  took  up  the  challenge  and  flashed  defiance  upon  the 
challenger. 

"  O,  Gertrude  was  born  good!  "  she  said.  "  I  wonder  papa 
took  the  trouble  to  christen  her.  It  is  impossible  tJiat  she  could 
have  been  born  in  sin  and  a  child  of  wrath,  like  the  rest  of  us. 
She  is  never  tired  of  church-going  and  district- visiting;  she 
has  no  intermittent  fever  of  wickedness,  as  I  have." 

"  When  you  are  no  longer  here,  dear  Mr.  Forde !  "  cried 
Gertrude,  deaf  to  her  sister's  sneers,  with  her  hands  clasped, 
and  her  somewhat-faded  gray  eyes  opened  very  wide,  and  gazing 
at  the  Curate  with  a  wild  surmise.  "  You  surely  do  not  mean 
that  you  are  thinking  of  leaving  us  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  nearly  two  years  at  Hawleigh,"  he  answered 
quietly  ;  "longer  than  I  intended  to  remain  when  I  fir.st  came 
here — two  very  happy  years ;  but  I  have  awakened  lately  to  the 
conviction  that  Hawleigh  is  not  ail  the  world,  only  a  very 
pleasant  corner  of  it;  and  that  if  I  stamp  my  name  upon 
nothing  larger  than  a  country  j^arish,  I  shall  scarcely  have 
realised  the  idea  with  which  I  entered  the  Church." 

"  You  have  been  offered  a  church  in  London  perhaps,"  gasped 
Gertrude  dolefully. 

Diana  and  Blanche  had  seated  themselves,  and  watched  the 
little  scene  with  a  sympathetic  air,  regretful  but  not  despairing. 
They  would  be  very  sorry  to  lose  Mr.  Forde,  who  was  tall,  and 
good-looking,  and  gentlemanlike,  and  had  money  of  his  own ; 
but  perhaps  the  vast  ocean  of  curates  might  cast  up  at  their 
feet  even  a  more  attractive  specimen  of  that  order,  a  man  better 
adapted  for  i^icnics,  and  small  tea-drinkings,  and  croquet. 

"  You  are  going  out  as  a  missionary,"  cried  EHzabeth  with 
conviction. 

They  all  turned  to  look  at  her,  startled  by  the  certainty  of  her 
tone.  She  had  not  stirred  from  her  position  by  the  hearth,  but 
^tood  there  confronting  them,  calm  as  a  statue,  a  curious  con- 
trast to  the  distressed  Gertrude,  who  was  wringing  her  hands 
feebly,  and  gazing  at  the  Curate  with  a  half-distracted  air. 

The  single  lamj)  stood  on  a  distant  table ;  but  even  in  the 
doubtful  light  Mr.  Forde  fencied  that  Elizabeth's  face  had  grown 
suddenly  pale. 

"You  are  going  out  as  a  missionary,"  she  repeated,  as  if  she 
had  by  some  subtle  power  of  sympathy  shared  all  his  thoughts 
from  the  hour  in  which  he  briefly  touched  upon  his  views  in  his 
one  confidential  talk  with  her. 

"  You  are  good  at  guessing,"  he  said.     "  Yes,  I  am  going." 

*'  0  "  cried  Gertrude,  "  it  is  like  your  apostolic  nature  to  con- 


Strang eti  and  Pilgrims.  137 

template  such  self-sacrifice.      But,  0,  dear  Mr.  Forde,  consider 
your  hcsiltli, — and  the  natives." 

"  I  don't  think  St.  Paul  ever  gave  much  consideration  to  his 
health,  or  the  question  of  possible  danEfer  from  the  natives," 
answered  Mr.  Forde,  with  his  grave  smile;  "and  if  you  insist 
upon  comparing  me  with  saints  and  apostles,  you  would  at  least 
expect  me  to  be  as  regardless  of  any  peril  to  myself  as  the 
numerous  gentlemen  who  have  spent  the  best  part  of  their  hves 
in  this  work." 

"  Those  lives  may  not  have  been  so  precious  as  yours,  Jlr. 
Forde." 

"  Or  they  may  have  been  much  more  precious.  There  are 
very  few  to  regret  me,  should  the  chances  of  war  be  adverse." 

Again  he  stole  a  glance  at  Elizabeth.  She  stood  Hrm  as  a 
rock,  and  was  now  not  even  looking  his  way.  Her  eyes  were 
bent  upon  the  decaying  fire,  with  that  customary  prophetic  look. 
She  might  have  been  trying  to  read  his  fate  there. 

"  However,"  he  continued,  "the  die  is  cast.  I  have  arrived  at 
the  conviction  that  I  am  more  wanted  yonder,  to  dig  and  dtlve 
that  rugged  soil,  than  to  idle  among  the  delights  of  this  flower- 
garden.  And  I  came  here  this  evening  to  announce  my  deter- 
mination to  Mr.  Luttrell.  Do  you  know  if  I  shall  find  him  in 
his  study  P  " 

"  Papa  has  gone  into  the  town,  to  the  reading-room,"  said 
Blanche. 

"  Then  I  can  take  my  chance  of  finding  hira  there,"  said  the 
Curate,  preparing  to  depart. 

"  0,  Mr.  Forde,  how  unkind  to  be  so  anxious  to  run  away, 
when  this  is  perhaps  almost  your  last  visit.  You  must  stop  to 
tea,  and  you  can  tell  us  about  your  plans ;  how  soon,"  with  a 
little  choking  noise,  "  you  really  mean  to  leave  us." 

"  I  will  stop  with  much  pleasure,  if  you  like, '  he  answered, 
putting  down  his  hat,  which  Gertrude  took  up  with  a  reverent 
air,  as  if  it  had  been  a  mitre,  and  removed  to  a  convenient 
abiding  place.  "  As  to  my  plans,  they  are  somewhat  vague  as 
yet.  I  have  little  to  tell  beyond  the  one  fact  that  I  am  going. 
Only  I  thought  it  due  to  Mr.  Luttrell  to  give  him  the  earliest 
information  of  that  fact,  insignificant  as  it  may  be." 

"  It   is  not  insignificant,"  exclaimed  Gertrude.     "  Hawleigh 
never  had  such  a  gain  or  such  a  loss  as  you  will  have  been  to  it.  ' 
"Will    it    be" — with    another    little    choking   interval,   like   a 
strangled  semicolon — "very  long  before  we  lose  you?  " 

"  I  do  I'.ot  know  what  you  would  call  long.  About  a  month, 
perhaps." 

"  Only  a  month — only  four  more  blessed  Sundays !  0,  Mr. 
Forde,  that  is  sudden  !  " 

"  Do  not  suppose  that  I  am  not  sorry  to  go,"  said  Mr.  Forde. 


138  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

"I  am  very  fond  of  Hawleigh.     But  that  other  work  ia  a  pari 
of  an  old  design.     I  have  only  been  trying  my  strength  here." 

"  Only  fluttering  your  wings  like  a  young  eagle  betore  soaring 
to  the  topmost  mountain  peaks,"  exclaimed  Gertrude  with  a 
little  gush  of  poetry,  raising  her  tearful  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  in 
the  midst  of  which  burst  the  maid  brought  in  the  tea-tray,  a,nd 
Miss  Luttrell  seated  herself  to  perform  her  duties  in  connection 
therewith,  not  without  a  consolatory  pride  in  the  silver  tea- 
service.  She  was  the  kind  of  woman  to  whom  even  in  the 
hour  of  despair  these  things  are  not  utterly  dust  and  ashes. 

Elizabeth  had  seated  herself  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  on 
which  her  gaze  was  still  gravely  bent.  She  made  no  farther 
attempt  to  join  in  the  conversation,  but  sat  silent  while  Gertrude 
persecuted  the  Curate  with  questions  about  his  future  career, 
not  consenting  to  be  put  off  with  vague  or  careless  answers, 
but  evincing  an  insatiable  thirst  for  exact  information  upon 
every  point. 

Scarcely  did  Elizabeth  lift  her  eyes  from  that  mute  contem- 
plation of  the  fire  when  Mr.  Forde  carried  her  a  cup  of  tea.  She 
took  it  from  him  with  a  murmured  acknowledgment,  but  did  not 
look  up  at  him,  or  give  him  any  excuse  for  lingering  near  her. 
He  was  obligrd  to  go  back  to  his  chair  by  the  round  table  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  and  sit  in  the  full  glare  of  the  lamp, 
submitting  himself  meekly  to  Gertrude's  cross-questioning.  He 
bore  this  infliction  perhaps  with  a  greater  patience  than  he 
might  otherwise  have  shown,  for  the  sake  of  that  quiet  figure 
by  the  hearth.  Against  his  better  judgment,  even  although  the 
plan  of  his  life  was  fixed  irrevocably,  and  Elizabeth  Luttrell's 
image  excluded  from  it,  there  was  yet  a  pensive  sweetness  in 
her  presence — her  silent  presence — the  sense  of  being  near  her. 

"  What  does  it  matter  if  the  pleasure  is  a  fooUsh  one  ?  "  he 
thought :  "  it  must  needs  be  so  brief." 

He  stayed  about  an  hour,  sipping  orange  pekoe,  and  talking 
somewhat  reluctantly  of  his  hopes  and  views,  for  he  was  a  man 
who  deemed  that  in  these  things  silence  is  golden.  He  tried  to  turn 
the  thread  of  talk  another  way,  but  Gertrude  would  not  be  put  off. 

"  O,  let  us  talk  of  you  and  your  future,  dear  Mr.  Forde,"  she 
exclaimed,  with  her  accustomed  air  of  pious  rapture.  "  It  will 
be  such  a  comfort  when  you  are  gone  to  be  able  to  think  of  yon, 
and  follow  your  footsteps  on  the  map." 

The  clock  struck  the  half-hour  after  nine,  and  Mr.  Luttrell 
had  not  yet  appeared,  so  the  Curate  rose  to  depart,  and  went 
across  to  the  hearthrug  to  bid  Elizabeth  good-night. 

"  You  had  better  say  good-bye  at  the  same  time,"  said  Diana. 
"  Your  visits  are  so  few  and  far  between  that  I  daresay  Lizzie 
will  have  gone  away  before  we  eee  you  again." 

"  Gone  away !  " 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  139 

"  Yes  ;  she  is  going  to  town  in  a  fortnight  to  stay  with  aunt 
Chevenix." 

"  Indeed."  This  in  a  disappointed  tone,  yet  it  could  matter 
BO  httle  to  him  whither  she  went,  when  he  was  about  to  discon- 
nect himself  altogether  from  Hawleigh.  Only  he  disapproved 
of  aunt  (Chevenix  in  the  abstract,  and  it  was  disagreeable  to  him 
to  hear  that  the  woman  he  had  admired,  and  at  times  even 
believed  in,  was  about  to  be  subject  to  her  influence. 

"  I  believe  you  are  half  a  Puritan  at  heart,  Mr.  Forde,"  said 
Diana, "  and  that  you  look  upon  all  fashionable  pleasures  as  crimi- 
nal. I  could  read  it  in  your  face  one  day  when  auntie  was  holding 
forth  upon  her  delectable  land  in  the  regions  of  Eaton-place." 

"  I  have  no  passion  for  that  kind  of  thing,  I  admit,"  answered 
the  Curate.  "  But  I  trust  that  your  sister  Elizabeth  wiU  pass 
safely  through  that  and  every  other  ordeal.  If  good  wishes  could 
insure  her  safety,  mine  are  earnest  enough  to  count  for  something." 

He  shook  hands  with  Elizabeth  as  he  said  tliia.  The  hand  she 
gave  him  was  very  cold,  and  he  fancied  even  that  it  trembled  a 
little  as  his  strong  fingers  closed  on  it.  Then  followed  Gertrude's 
effusive  fiirewells.  He  would  come  to  see  them  oftener,  would  he 
not,  now  that  his  hours  among  them  were  numbered  P  Diana 
and  Blanche  were  also  efiusive,  but  in  a  milder  degree,  having 
already  been  speculating  upon  the  possible  attributes  of  a  new 
curate.  In  so  dull  a  life  as  theirs  even  the  agony  of  such  a  part- 
ing was  not  unpleasing  distraction,  like  that  abscess  in  the  cheek 
from  which  an  Austi'ian  archduchess  derived  amusement  in  her 
declining  years. 

While  these  farewells  were  being  somewhat  lengthily  drawn 
out,  Elizabeth  slipped  quietly  from  the  room.  Mr.  Forde  heard 
the  flutter  of  her  dress,  and  looked  round  for  a  moment,  to  dis- 
cover that  her  place  was  vacant.  How  empty  did  the  room  seem 
to  him  without  her  ! 

He  dragged  himself  away  from  the  reluctant  Gertrude  at  last, 
and  felt  not  a  little  relieved  when  he  found  himself  in  the  open 
air,  under  a  windy  sky ;  the  moon  shining  fitfully,  with  swift 
clouds  scudding  across  her  silvern  face,  the  night  winds  sighing 
among  the  laurels  on  the  leaty  bank  that  shadowed  the  almost 
empty  flower-border,  where  a  fringe  of  daffodils  showed  pale  in 
the  moonlight.  Mr.  Forde  walked  slowly  towards  the  gate,  over 
the  lawn  on  which  he  had  condescended  to  foolish  games  of 
croquet  in  the  summers  that  were  gone,  thinking  of  Elizabeth, 
and  her  curious  apathetic  silence,  and  the  almost  deathlike  cold- 
ness of  the  hand  that  had  touched  his. 

"  She  is  the  strangest  girl,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  there  are 
moments  when  I  am  half  tempted  to  think " 

He  did  not  finish  the  thought  even  to  himself,  for  looking  up 
suddenly  he  beheld  a  figure  standing  before  him  on  the  edge  of 


140  Strangers  and  Pilffrimg. 

tlie  lawn,  a  woman's  figure,  wifh  a  shawl  of  fleecy  whiteness 
folded  Arab-wise,  and  shrouding  it  almost  from  head  to  feet. 
Yet  even  thus  muffled  he  knew  the  figure  by  its  bearing ;  a 
loftier  air  than  is  common  to  modern  young-lady-hood — some- 
thing  nearer  akin  to  the  untutored  grace  of  an  Indian  princess. 

"Elizabeth!" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Forde.  I  have  come  out  here  to  ask  you  if  it  ia 
true, — if  you  do  really  intend  to  fling  away  your  life  like  that  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  question  of  my  flinging  away  my  life,"  he  an- 
swered quietly,  yet  strangely  moved  by  her  presence,  by  the 
smothered  passion  in  her  tone.  "  I  shall  be  a,s  much  in  thehanda 
of  God  yonder  as  I  am  here." 

"  Of  course,"  she  answered  in  her  reckless  way,  "  God  is  with 
as  everywhere,  watching  and  judging  us.  But  He  sufi'ers  human 
Bacrifices,  even  in  our  day.  It  may  be  in  the  scheme  of  Provi- 
dence that  you  should  be  eaten,  or  scalped,  or  tomahawked,  or 
\urnt  alive  by  savages." 

"  Be  sure  that  if  it  is,  the  thing  will  happen." 

"  0,  that  is  your  horrible  Calvinistic  doctrine  ;  almost  ai8  bad 
as  a  Turk's.  But  if  you  do  not  leave  England  you  cannot  fall 
into  the  hands  of  those  dreadful  savages." 

"  And  perhaps  remain  at  home  to  be  killed  in  a  railway  acci- 
dent, or  die  of  smallpox.  I  hardly  think  the  savages  would  be 
worse ;  and  if  I  felt  I  had  done  any  good  among  them,  there 
would  be  a  kind  of  glory  in  my  death,  which  might  take  the  sting 
out  of  its  physical  pain." 

" '  The  path  of  gloiy  leads  but  to  the  grave,' "  said  Elizabeth 
gloomil_y.  "Don't  go,  Mr.  Forde.  There  are  heathens  enough 
to  convert  in  England." 

"  But  I  feel  that  my  vocation  calls  me  yonder." 

"  It  is  a  mere  fancy.  You  were  a  soldier  the  other  day,  and 
cannot  forget  the  old  longing  for  foreign  service." 

"Believe  me,  no;  I  have  considered  this  business  with  more 
ieHberation  than  is  usual  to  me,  and  I  am  quite  convinced  that 
my  duty  1:63  in  that  direction." 

"  A  delusion !  You  would  be  greater  and  more  useful  in 
England.  Your  countryman,  Edward  Irving,  had  once  that 
fancy,  I  remember;  he  had  his  ideal  picture  of  a  missionary's 
life,  and  seriout-ly  thought  of  trying  to  realise  it." 

■'  Better  for  himself,  perhaps,  if  he  had  achieved  that  early 
aim,  than  to  be  a  world's  wonder  for  a  few  brief  years,  and  die 
the  dupe  of  a  disordered  brain." 

"  Don't  go,  Mr.  Forde  !  "  clasping  her  hands,  and  looking  up 
at  him  so  piteously  with  her  lovely  eyes,  so  diSerent  from  the 
seraphic  gaze  of  poor  Gertrude's  faded  orbs.  "  I  wish  to  Heavf  r  X 
were  eloquent,  and  krew  how  to  plead  and  argue  as  some  -i  j^  ia 
do" 


Strangers  and  Pilgrimit.  141 

"You  are  only  too  eloquent;  your  words  go  to  my  heart.  For 
God's  sake,  say  no  more  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will  say  mucli  more ;  if  I  can  touch  you,  if  my 
words  can  penetrate  your  obstinate  heart,  jow  shall  not  go.  I 
am  pleading  for  Hawleigh,  and  all  the  jjcople  who  love  you,  who 
have  drawn  their  very  faith  and  hope  from  you,  as  if  your  soul 
were  a  fountain  of  righteousness.  I  have  a  presentiment  that  if 
you  go  to  those  savage  islands  it  will  be  to  perish  ;  to  lose  your 
life  for  a  vain  dream.  Stay  here,  and  teach  us  to  be  good.  We 
were  half  of  us  pagans  till  you  came  to  us." 

They  had  walked  on  towards  the  gate  while  they  were  talking. 
They  now  stood  close  beside  it;  Elizabeth  with  one  bare  hand 
clasping  the  topmost  bar,  as  if  she  meant  to  hinder  the  Curate's 
exit  till  she  had  extorted  the  recantation  of  his  vow. 

There  was  a  little  pause  after  her  last  speech.  Malcolm 
Forde  stood  looking  downward,  thinking  of  what  she  had  said; 
thinking  of  it  with  a  passionate  delight  which  Avas  new  and 
strange  to  his  soul;  a  rapture  which  had  been  no  element  in  his 
love  of  Alice  Fi-aser.  Suddenly  he  took  the  hand  that  hung 
loosely  by  Elizabeth's  side. 

"  If  I  were  weak  enough,  mad  enough,  to  prefer  my  own  hap- 
piness to  tho  call  of  duty,  I  should  stay  here,"  he  said ;  "  you 
ought  to  know  that." 

"  I  know  nothing  except  that  you  have  been  hard  and  cruel  to 
me  always,  in  spite  of  all  my  feeble  endeavours  to  please  you," 
answered  the  girl  with  the  fiiint  touch  of  the  pettishnesa 
common  to  undisciplined  beauty. 

"  Your  endeavours  to  please  me ! "  he  repeated.  "  Could  I 
think  yi)U  valued  my  opinion?  If  I  had  imagined  that;  if 
I  could  have  supposed,  for  one  presumptuous  moment,  that  you 
loved  me " 

"  If  you  could  have  supposed  !"  she  cried  impatiently.  "  You 
must  have  known  that  I  loved  yon,  that  I  have  hated  myself 
for  loving  you,  that  I  hated  you  tor  not  loving  me." 

No  swift  answer  came  from  his  lips,  but  she  was  clasped  in 
his  arms,  held  close  against  his  heart,  his  passionate  heart, 
which  had  never  beaten  thus  until  this  moment. 

*'  ]\[y  darling,  my  darling ! "  he  said  at  last,  in  the  lowest 
fondest  tones  that  ever  stole  from  a  lover's  lips.  "  I  never  knew 
what  passionate  love  meant  till  I  knew  you." 

"Not  when  you  loved  Alice  Fraser?"  she  asked  doubtfully. 

"  Not  even  for  my  sweet  Alice.  I  loved  her  because  she  was 
as  good  as  she  was  beautiful,  because  to  love  her  seemed  the 
nearest  way  to  heaven.  I  love  you  even  when  you  seemed  to 
lead  me  away  from  heaven." 

"  Because  I  am  so  wicked,"  she  said  with  a  shade  of  bitterness. 

"No,   darhng;    only   because  you   are   not  utterly  perfect? 

K. 


142  Slrangen  and  Pilgrims. 

because  to  love  yon  is  to  be  too  fond  of  this  sweet  world,  to  be 
less  eager  for  heaven.  0  my  dearest,  what  a  slave  you  can 
make  of  me  !  But  beware  of  this  passionate  love  which  you 
have  kindled  in  a  heart  that  tried  so  hard  to  shut  you  out.  It 
is  jealous  and  exacting,  tyrannic,  perilous — perilous  for  you  and 
for  me.  It  is  of  the  earth,  earthy.  I  love  you  too  much  for  the 
sake  of  your  beauty,  too  much  for  the  magic  of  those  lovely 
eyes  that  seem  sweeter  to  me  than  summer  starlight." 

"  And  if  something  were  to  happen  to  me  that  would  spoil  my 
good  looks  for  ever,  you  would  leave  off  loving  me,  I  suppose  ?  " 
she  said. 

"  No,  dearest,  you  would  still  be  Elizabeth.  There  is  a  name- 
less, indefinable  charm  which  would  be  left  even  if  your  beauty 
had  perished." 

"  'L'hen  you  do  not  love  me  for  the  sake  of  my  beauty  ?  "  she 
asked  persistently,  as  if  she  were  bent  on  plucking  out  the  heart 
of  his  mystery. 

"Not  now,  perhaps;  but  I  fear  it  was  that  which  won  me.  I 
never  meant  to  love  you,  remember,  Elizabeth.  No  battle  was 
ever  harder  fought  than  mine  against  my  own  heart  and  you, 
nor  ever  a  battle  lost  more  ignominiously,"  he  added,  with  a 
faint  sigh. 

"  Thank  Heaven  it  is  lost!"  she  said;  "not  for  my  sake— I 
will  not  claim  so  unwilling  a  victim— but  for  your  own.  You 
will  not  go  to  the  Antipodes  to  be  eaten  by  savages  ?  " 

"  Not  if  yoa  offer  me  the  supremest  earthly  happiness  at 
home.  I  will  try  to  do  some  good  in  my  generation,  and  yet  be 
happy.  I  will  forget  that  I  ever  had  any  higher  aspiration  than 
to  tread  the  beaten  tracks.  I  will  try  to  be  useful  in  my  small 
way — at  home." 

This  half-regretfully,  even  with  her  bright  head  resting  on  his 
shoulder,  her  lovely  eyes  looking  up  at  him  with  an  almost 
worshipping  fondness. 

"  And  you  will  help  me  to  lead  a  good  life,  will  you  not, 
Elizabeth  ?  "  he  asked  earnestly. 

'  I  will  be  your  slave,"  she  said,  with  a  strange  blending  of 
scorn  and  pride — scorn  of  herself,  intensest  pride  in  him.  "  I 
r/ill  be  your  dog,  to  fetch  and  carry;  the  veriest  drudge  in  your 
parish  work,  if  you  hke.  I  can  fancy  our  life :  in  the  dreaiuest 
parsonage  that  was  ever  built,  a  wUd  waste  of  marsh  and  fen 
round  about  us,  a  bleak  strangling  street  of  hovels  for  our  town, 
not  a  decent  habitation  within  ten  miles  of  us,  only  the  poor  with 
their  perpetual  wants,  and  ailments,  and  afflictions.  I  can  fancy 
all  this,  and  yet  my  hfe  will  be  spent  in  paradise — with  you." 

Sweet  fooling  in  which  lovers  delight !  Doubly  sweet  to 
Malcolm  Forde,  to  whom  it  was  so  new. 

"  My  dearest  and  best,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her  enthusiasm. 


strangers  and  Pilgrims.  l^i 

"I  will  forgive  you  the  marshes  and  fens;  that  is  to  say,  we 
will  not  go  out  of  our  way  to  find  them.  But  tve  will  go  wher- 
ever we  are  most  wanted." 

"  To  a  nice  manufacturing  town,  for  instance,  where  there 
will  be  a  perpetual  odour  of  soap-boiling  and  size-making,  and 
Boot  blowing  in  at  all  our  windows." 

"  Perhaps  to  such  a  town,  darling;  but  I  would  find  you  a 
nest  beyond  the  odours  of  soap-boiliug." 

"  Or  if  you  have  set  your  heart  on  a  mission  to  the  Dog-nb 
Indians,  or  the  Maoris,  or  the  Japanese,  I  will  go  with  you. 
Why  should  I  have  less  courage  than  that  noble  creature.  Lady 
Baker?  Indeed,  on  reflection,  I  think  I  should  rather  like  such 
an  adventurous  existence.  If  one  could  go  about  in  a  yacht, 
now,  and  convert  the  heathen,  it  would  be  really  nice." 

"  I  will  not  risk  a  life  so  precious  to  me.  No,  dearest,  we  will 
be  content  with  a  narrower  sphere.  After  all,  perhaps  a  clergy- 
man who  has  a  wife  may  be  of  more  use  tlian  a  bachelor  in  an 
Enghsh  parish  ;  she  can  be  such  a  valuable  ally  if  she  chooses, 
almost  a  second  self." 

"  I  will  choose  to  be  anything  that  you  order  me  to  be,"  she 
answered  confidently. 

"  But,  0,  my  darling,  are  you  really  in  earnest  P"  he  asked  in 
his  gravest  tone,  scrutinising  the  upturned  face  with  a  serious 
searching  gaze.  "  For  pity's  sake,  Elizabeth,  do  not  fool  me ! 
You  have  told  me  that  you  are  fitful  and  inconstant.  If— if — 
this  love,  which  fills  my  soul  with  such  a  fond  delight,  which 
changes  the  whole  scheme  of  my  existence  in  a  moment, — if,  on 
your  part,  it  is  only  a  brief  fancy,  born  perhaps  of  the  very  idle- 
ness and  emptiness  of  your  life,  let  us  forget  every  word  that  we 
have  said.  You  can  trust  me,  darling  ;  I  shall  not  think  less  of 
you  for  being  self-deluded.  Consider  in  time  whether  it  is 
possible  for  you  to  change ;  whether  the  kind  of  life  which  you 
speak  of  so  lightly  would  not  really  seem  dismal  and  unendur- 
able to  you  when  you  found  yourself  pledged  to  go  on  living  it  t<i 
the  end  of  your  days ;  whether  there  is  not  in  your  heart  some 
hankering  for  worldly  pleasures  and  worldly  triumphs:  a  longing 
which  might  grow  into  a  regret  when  you  had  lost  all  hope  of 
them  for  ever.  To  marry  me  is  to  accept  a  life  that  must  bo 
lived  chiefly  for  others.    My  wife  must  be  a  lay  sister  of  charity. 

"  Have  I  not  told  you  that  I  will  be  your  slave  ? "  she  an- 
swered; and  then  withdrawing  herself  suddenly  from  his  arms, 
^'  0,  I  begin  to  understand,"  she  said,  with  a  deeply  wounded 
air;  "it  is  I  who  have  been  offering  myself  to  you,  not  you  to 
me,  and  you  are  trying  to  find  a  polite  mode  of  rejection.  Why 
are  you  not  more  candid  ?  Why  not  humiliate  me  at  once  by 
saying,  '  Keally,  Miss  Luttrell,  your  readiness  to  sacrifice  your- 
Belf  is  most  obliging,  only  I  do  not  happen  to  want  you  ?' " 


\44  Strangers  and  Filgrims. 

"  Elizabeth,  you  know  that  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and 
mind." 

"Do  you P  No,  I  cannot  believe  it;  I  have  wished  it  too 
much ;  no  one  ever  obtained  anything  so  ardently  wished  for. 
It  is  not  in  nature  that  I  should  be  so  happy." 

"  If  there  is  any  happiness  in  being  assured  of  my  love,  drink 
the  draught  freely.  It  is,  and  has  been  yours  almost  since  the 
beginning  of  our  acquaintance." 

"  There  is  more  than  happiness,  there  is  intoxication !  "  she 
answered  in  her  fervent  unmeasured  fashion.  "]Sot  because 
you  are  handsome,"  she  went  on,  with  an  arch  smile ;  "  for  in 
that  respect  I  am  superior  to  you.  It  was  not  your  face  that 
won  me.  I  love  you  because  you  seem  to  me  so  much  above  all 
other  men ;  because  you  have  dominion  over  me,  in  fact.  I  did 
not  think  it  could  be  so  sweet  to  have  a  master." 

"  Say,  rather,  a  guide  and  counsellor,  dearest.  There  shall  be 
no  question  of  dominion  between  us.  I  want  your  life  to  be  as 
happy  as  min^  will  be  in  the  pospeL«sion  of  your  love." 

"But  I  insist  upon  your  being  my  master!"  she  answered 
impetuously.  "  I  am  not  a  creature  to  be  guided  or  counselled ; 
Bee  how  little  inflt'ence  papa  has  ever  exercised  over  me  with  his 
mild  bewailings  and  lamentings,  or  Gertrude  with  her  everlast- 
ing sermonising.  Believe  me,  I  must  be  commanded  by  a  being 
stronger  than  myself.  Even  my  love  for  you  is. slavish.  See 
how  little  value  I  could  have  set  ujion  my  dignity  as  a  woman 
when  I  came  out  here  to-night  to  make  my  supplication  to  you. 
But  I  did  not  mean  to  betray  myself.  I  only  meant  to  plead  for 
the  people  of  Hawleigh.  Tou  wiU  not  think  me  too  contempti- 
ble, will  you,  Malcolm  ?  " 

The  name  was  half  whispered.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
ever  pronounced  it. 

"  Contemptible  1 "  A  lingering  kiss  upon  the  broad  white 
brow  made  the  rest  of  his  answer. 

How  long  this  kind  of  talk  might  have  lasted  is  an  open  ques- 
tion, but  at  this  moment  Elizabeth's  quick  ear  caught  the  sound 
of  a  footstep  on  the  high-road. 

"  It  is  papa,  perhaps,"  she  said  nervously.     "  O,  please  go." 

"  If  you  wish  it,  darling.  But  I  may  tell  him  everything  to- 
morrow, may  I  not?  " 

"  To-morrow !     That  is  so  very  sudden." 

"There  can  be  no  reason  for  delay,  dearest.  Of  course  our 
marriage  is  an  event  in  the  future.  I  am  not  going  to  hasten 
that  unduly.     Though,  as  far  as  worldly  matters  go,  I  am  in  a 

Eosition  to  marry  to-morrow.     But  there  should  be  no  delay  in 
.jtting  yout  father  know  of  our  engagement." 

"I  supj/ose  not.  Our  engagement!  How  strange  that 
Bounds !     Do  yon  really  mean  it,  or  will  you  write  me  a  little 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  14.5 

note  to-morrow  morning  recalling  your  ill-advised  expreswons  of 
to-night  ?  " 

"  Such  a  note  is  more  likely  to  come  from  you  than  from  me. 
But  one  word,  darling.  What  about  this  visit  to  Mrs.  CheveuLx? 
It  can  be  put  off,  can  it  not,  now  ?  " 

"I  hardly  think  so;  auntie  has  made  all  preparations  for 
me. 

"  They  cannot  involve  much." 

"  She  would  be  so  disappointed,  and  papa  so  angry ;  and 
there  are  my  expectations,  you  know.  One  cannot  fly  in  the 
face  of  fortune." 

"My  wife  must  be  independent  of  expectations,  dear.  And 
London  gaieties  are  not  the  best  preparation  for  life  in  a  par- 
sonage among  the  fens." 

"  Do  you  think  not  ?  I  shall  find  out  how  hollow  and  empty 
such  pleasures  are,  and  learn  to  despise  them." 

"  That  is  according  to  circumstances.  But  as  a  matter  of  per- 
sonal feeling,  I  would  rather  you  did  not  go." 

"  I  only  wish  it  were  possible  to  slip  out  of  the  engagement; 
but  I  don't  think  it  is ;  aunt  Chevenix  is  so  easily  ofiended." 

"  Offend  her  then,  dear,  for  once  in  the  way." 

Elizabeth  shook  her  head  hopelessly.  After  the  money  that 
had  been  spent  upon  her  dresses  it  would  seem  something  worse 
than  folly  not  to  wear  them.  They  might  have  served  for  her 
trousseau  perhaps,  but  she  doubted  if  so  much  flouncing  and 
trimming  on  the  garments  of  a  country  clergyman's  wife  would 
have  satisfied  Malcolm  Forde's  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things. 
There  was  a  white  tulle  ball  dress  dotted  about  with  tea-roses,  a 
masterpiece  of  Miss  March's  which  she  thought  of  with  a  tender 
regretfulness.  0,  the  dresses  ought  really  to  be  worn;  and  what 
a  pity  to  offend  aunt  Chevenix  for  nothing  ! 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Forde.  "I  see  my  tyranny  is  not  to 
begin  yet  awhile.  If  you  must  go,  dear,  you  must.  But  it 
seems  rather  hard  that  our  betrothal  should  be  inaugurated  by  a 
separation." 

"  It  will  only  be  for  a  few  weeks.  And  I  am  not  going  till  th< 
end  of  the  month." 

The  footstep  had  approached  and  had  passed  the  Vicaragf 
gate.  It  was  not  the  step  of  Mr.  Luttrell,  but  of  some  bulky 
farmer  walking  briskly  towards  his  homestead. 

"  Good-night,  dearest !  "  said  Malcolm  Forde,  suddenly 
awakened  to  the  recollection  that  it  was  a  cold  March  night,  and 
that  Elizabeth  was  beginning  to  shiver.  *'  How  inconsiderate  of 
me  to  keep  you  standing  in  the  open  air  so  long.  Shall  I  take 
you  back  to  the  hall-door  ?  " 

"  O,  no ;  my  sisters  might  see  us,  and  wonder.  I  will  run 
round  by  the  orchard,  and  go  in  the  back-way." 


146  Strangers  and  Pilgrimg. 

"  Very  well,  dear.    They  shall  have  no  ground  for  wonder- 
ment after  to-morrow.     Good-night." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  For  Destiny  does  not  like 

To  yield  to  men  the  helm, 
And  shoots  his  thoughts  by  hidden  nerve* 

Throughout  the  solid  realm. 
The  patient  Damon  sits 

With  roses  and  a  shroud; 
He  has  his  way,  and  deals  his  gifts — 

But  ours  is  not  allow'd." 

Vekt  little  slumber  ca«ie  to  the  eyelids  of  EHzabeth  that  night. 
She  had  spent  many  a  sleepless  night  of  late ;  nights  of  tossing 
to  and  fro,  and  weary  longing  for  the  late-coming  dawn  ;  nights 
full  of  thought  and  wonder  about  the  dim  strange  future,  and 
what  it  held  for  her ;  nights  full  of  visions  of  triumphs  and 
pleasures  to  come,  or  of  sad  longing  for  one  dearer  delight  which 
was  never  to  be  hers — the  love  of  that  one  man  whom  she  loved. 

Yery  diiferent  were  her  thoughts  and  visions  to-night.  He 
loved  her.  The  one  unspeakable  blessing  which  she  had  for  a 
long  time  deemed  unattainable  had  dropped  into  her  lap.  He 
loved  her,  and  she  had  given  herself  to  him  for  ever  and  ever. 
No  more  vague  dreams  of  the  triumphs  that  were  to  be  won  by 
her  beauty,  no  more  half-childish  imaginings  of  pleasures  and 
glories  awaiting  her  in  the  world  she  knew  not.  On  the  very 
threshold  of  that  dazzling  region,  just  when  success  seemed  cer- 
tainty, Love  closed  the  gate,  and  she  was  to  remain  without,  in 
the  bleaker  drearier  world  she  knew,  brightened  only  by  that  dear 
companionship. 

She  had  told  him  that  the  most  dismal  home  to  which  he  could 
take  her  would  be  a  paradise,  if  shared  with  him ;  and  she  be- 
lieved that  it  would  be  so.  Yet  being  a  creature  made  up  of 
opposites,  she  could  not  let  the  old  dream  go  without  a  pang._ 

"From  my  very  childhood  I  have  fancied  that  something 
wonderful  would  happen  to  me,  Bomething  as  brillliant  and 
unexpected  as  the  fate  of  Cinderella :  and  it  all  ends  by  my 
marrying  a  curate  ! "  she  said  to  herself  half  wonderingly. 
"  But  then  he  is  not  Hke  the  common  herd  of  curates,  he  is  not 
like  the  common  herd  of  mankind.  It  is  an  honour  to  worship 
Mm." 

And  then  by  and  by  she  thonght : 

*'  I  wish  I  had  been  a  Russian  empress,  and  he  my  serf.  What 
e  delight  to  have  chosen  him  from  his  base-born  brotherhood, 


Strangers  and  Pilgrim*.  147 

and  placed  liim  beside  me  upon  the  throne ;  to  have  recognised 
all  that  makes  him  noble,  in  spite  of  his  surroundings  ;  to  have 
been  able  to  say,  '  I  give  you  my  heart  and  soul,  and  all  this 
northern  world  ' !  " 

An  empress  could  afford  to  make  a  bad  match.  It  was  a  bad 
match.  Even  with  all  the  glamour  of  this  new  delight  upon  her, 
she  did  not  attempt  to  disguise  this  fact. 

"  I  am  glad  he  has  money  of  his  own,"  she  mused.  "  We  caiv 
at  least  have  a  nicely-furnished  house — what  a  comfort  to  have 
modern  furniture  after  our  ancient  rubbish! — and  silver  like 
papa's.  And  I  daresay  Malcolm  will  give  memoney  enough  to 
dress  nicely,  in  a  simple  parson's-wifeish  way.  I  shall  have  to 
work  very  hard  in  his  parish,  of  course,  but  it  will  be  for  his  sake, 
and  that  will  sweeten  everything." 

She  thought  of  Lord  Paulyn,  and  smiled  to  herself  at  the  idea 
of  his  disappointment.  Now  that  she  had  plighted  her  faith  to 
some  one  else  she  felt  very  sure  that  the  Viscount  had  been  des- 
perately in  love  with  her,  and  had  only  waited,  with  the  insolence 
of  rank  and  wealth,  his  own  good  time  for  telling  her  of  his  love. 
It  would  be  not  unamusing,  if  she  met  him  in  London,  to  lead 
him  on  a  little,  to  the  point  of  an  offer  even,  and  then  crush  him 
by  the  information  that  she  was  'engaged.'  And  it  would  be 
still  more  agreeable  some  day  in  the  happy  future,  when  she 
was  Malcolm  Forde's  wife,  to  tell  her  husband  how  she  had  re- 
fused a  coronet  for  his  sake. 

She  remembered  that  foohsh  wager  of  her  pearl  necklace. 
Diana  was  welcome  to  the  bauble,  and  even  to  any  touch  of 
spiteful  triumph  which  she  might  feel  in  her  sister's  acceptance 
of  so  humble  a  destiny.  "  But  they  can  hardly  crow  over  me  if 
Lord  Paulyn  makes  me  an  offer,  and  I  refuse  him,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

"Was  she  not  utterly  happy  in  the  first  flush  of  her  victory, 
having  won  the  thing  she  had  longed  for  P  Almost  utterly,  per- 
haps ;  but  even  with  the  intoxication  of  that  delight  there  was 
mingled  a  vague  notion  that  she  had  been  foolish,  that  the  world 
— her  own  small  world — would  laugh  at  her.  She  had  carried 
her  head  so  high,  and  protested,  not  once  but  a  hundi'ed  times, 
that,  come  what  might,  she  would  never  throw  herself  away 
upon  a  curate.  What  a  storm  of  anger  and  ridicule  must  she 
needs  encounter  from  Mrs.  Chevenix,  whenever  that  worldly- 
wise  matron  should  be  informed  of  her  infatuated  conduct  ?  That 
defiant  spirit,  which  so  often  had  flouted  the  Chevenix,  quaUed 
and  shrunk  to-night  at  the  thought  of  the  stormy  scene  that 
was  likely  to  follow  such  a  revelation. 

"  But  surely  I  am  the  mistress  of  myself,"  she  thought.  "It 
is  myself  I  am  giving  away.  And  papa  is  not  up  to  his  eyes  in 
debt,  or  ia  danser  of  dying  in  a  workhouse  unless  I  make  a  rich 


148  Strangers  and  Pilgrimt. 

marriage.  And  if  I  am  a  little  better-looking  than  my  Bisters, 
and  the  sort  of  girl  people  say  ought  to  make  a  success  in  life,  ia 
that  any  reason  why  I  should  not  be  happy  my  own  way,  un- 
utterably happy  with  the  man  I  love  so  dearly,  and  tt>  be  loved 
by  whom  is  hke  the  beginning  of  a  new  life  ?  " 

It  will  be  seen  therefore  that  even  in  the  hour  of  victory  Eliza- 
beth was  not  unconscious  of  having  thrown  herself  away.  She 
had  been  miserable  ^vitbout  Mr.  Forde's  love ;  but  she  was  quite 
aware  of  the  price  her  devotion  to  him  was  to  cost  her.  The 
phantasmal  opera-box,  and  town-house,  and  country-seats,  and 
carriages,  and  saddle-horses  faded  slowly  from  before  her  eyes, 
like  a  ghostly  procession  of  this  world's  brightest  glories,  melting 
for  ever  into  shadow-land.  The  worldly  half  of  her  soul  suffered 
a  pang  at  parting  with  these  pomps  and  vanities. 

"  They  do  not  constitute  happiness,  I  know,"  she  reilected ; 
"  but  I  have  thought  of  them  so  long  as  a  part  of  my  future  life, 
that  it  does  seem  just  a  little  difficult  to  imagine  the  future  with- 
out them." 

And  then  she  remembered  the  dark  eyes  looking  down  at  hers ; 
the  grave  low  voice  speaking  words  of  love,  sweeter  words  than 
she  had  ever  thought  to  hear  from  the  lips  of  Malcolm  Forde. 
She  remembered  these  things,  and  the  pomps  and  vanities 
seemed  as  nothing  when  weighed  against  them. 

"Thank  God  that  he  loves  me,"  she  said  to  herself.  "What 
do  I  care  if  other  people  are  disappointed  or  mahcious  P  I  will 
be  hapi^y  my  own  way." 

In  spite  of  this  resolution  she  felt  strangely  nervous  next 
morning  at  breakfast,  when  she  met  the  family  circle,  about 
which  there  seemed  somehew  to  be  a  lurking  air  of  suspicion, 
thouuh  nobody  could  have  reason  to  suspect.  She  had  slipped 
quietly  in  from  her  nocturnal  excursion,  and  had  gone  up  to  her 
Qwn  room  unobserved :  whence  she  sent  a  message  to  the  draw- 
ing-room by  one  of  the  servants,  to  the  eifect  that  she  had  a 
headache,  and  could  not  come  down  to  prayers. 

'*  I  hope  your  headache  is  gone,"  said  Diana,  with  the  lukewarm 
solicitude  of  a  relative. 

"Thanks;  yes,  I  think  so." 

"  A  headache  is  scarcely  a  subject  for  thought,"  remarked 
Gertrude  ;  "  one  has  or  one  has  not  a  headache." 

"  There  are  such  things  as  nervous  headaches,"  said  EUzabeth 
carelessly. 

"  Which  I  have  always  regarded  as  another  name  for  affecta- 
tion," replied  Gertrude. 

"  But  you're  not  eating  a  crumb  of  anything,  Lizzie,"  ex- 
claimed Blanche ;  "  and  you're  so  pale,  and  have  such  a  heavy 
look  about  tlie  e3'es." 

"  I  did  not  sleep  much  last  night ;  and  as  for  breeififtst.  I  have 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  14f 

always  considered  it  a  most  uninviting  meal — perpetual  ^ggfi, 
and  rashers,  and  dry  toast,  and  Dundee  marmalade."  Give  me 
another  cup  of  tea,  please,  Gerty  ;  I  am  feverishly  thirsty.  And 
I  am  sure,  if  we  are  on  the  subject  of  looks,  I  cannot  congratu- 
late you  on  your  appearance  this  morning ;  you  look  as  if  you 
had  been  crying  half  the  night." 

Gertrude  flushed  crinison  at  this  accusation. 

"I  do  not  deny  that  Mr.  Forde's  announcement  of  last  night 
was  a  blow  to  me,"  she  said.  "  We  have  worked  so  long  together, 
and  I  had  learnt  to  look  upon  him  almost  as  a  brother.'' 

Elizabeth  smiled  to  herself  as  she  looked  into  her  teacup. 
She  was  wondering  how  Gertrude  would  like  to  look  upon  him 
quite  as  a  brother ;  that  is  to  say,  as  a  brother-in-law. 

"  The  idea  of  his  going  out  as  a  missionary,"  exclaimed 
Blanche,  spreading  marmalade  on  her  bread-and-butter.  "  It 
Bounds  Low  Church,  somehow,  to  me." 

"  I  wonder  what  his  successor  will  be  like  ?  "  speculated  Diana. 
"  Good-looking  and  gentlemanlike,  I  trust." 

"  And  not  a  horrid  man  with  a  herd  of  brats,"  said  the  flip- 
pant Blanche. 

"Blanche,  I  do  not  consider  it  consistent  either  witli  Christian 
principles  or  the  preservation  of  your  health,  to  put  marmalade 
on  your  bread-and-butter  to  such  an  extent  as  you  are  doing!  " 
said  Gertrude,  with  a  housekeeper's  eye  to  waste. 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  see  no  more  of  Mr.  Forde  till  just  as  he  is 

foing  away,  and  then  perhaps  we  shall  only  get  his  card  with 
'.P.C.  in  the  corner,"  remarked  Diana  listlessly.  She  had 
already  begun  to  put  Mr.  Forde  out  of  her  miad,  as  a  thing  of 
the  past. 

Elizabeth  smiled  again,  with  bent  head,  a  happy  triumphant 
smile.  The  smile  of  a  heart  which  held  no  regret  for  a  possible 
coronet;  a  heart  which  was  filled  to  the  very  brim  with  love  for 
Malcolm  Forde,  and  joyful  pride  for  having  won  him.  She  was 
tiiinking  how  soon  they  were  likely  to  see  him  again,  and  how 
often.  He  was  hers  now ;  her  vassal.  Yes,  he,  the  saint,  the 
demigod,  had  assumed  an  earthly  bondage.  She  had  talked,  in 
her  foolish  childish  rapture,  of  being  his  slave;  but  she  meant 
to  make  him  hers. 

"  I  wish  I  could  get  out  of  the  visit  to  auntie,  as  he  wishes," 
Bhe thought.  "If  Blanche  could  go  in  my  place,  for  instance. 
But  my  dress  wouldn't  fit  Blanche;  and  perhaps  it  would  be  as 
well  for  me  to  see  the  world  a  little  before  I  bid  good-bye  to  it, 
drain  the  cup  of  pleasure  to  the  dregs,  and  find  out  how  vapid 
the  draught  is." 

This  was  an  easy  way  of  settling  the  question ;  but  the  fact 
is  that  Elizabeth  Luttrell,  having  looked  forward  during  the  last 
four  years  to  the  unknown  delights  of  a  London  season,  was 


150  Strangers  and  Pilgrms. 

liardly  disposed  to  reliTtqiiish  so  much  pleasure,  even  for  Oi<t 
sake  of  the  man  she  loved  bettei-  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world. 
She  was  a  girl  who  thought  she  had  a  right  to  obtain  every- 
thing she  wished  for,  and  even  to  serve  two  masters  if  she 
pleased. 

She  appeared  unusually  restless  during  the  interval  between 
breakfast  and  luncheon;  wandered  out  into  the  garden  and 
orchard,  and  came  back  to  the  house  with  her  hair  blown  about 
by  the  bleak  March  wind;  sat  down  to  the  piano,  when  that  in- 
strument was  available,  and  sang  a  little,  and  played  a  little,  in 
her  usual  desultory  manner;  took  up  a  book  from  the  table, 
only  to  fling  it  down  impatiently  five  minutes  afterwards  ;  and 
every  now  and  then  went  to  the  window,  and  stood  looking 
absently  across  the  lawn. 

"  One  would  suppose  you  expected  somebody,  Lizzie,"  said 
Diana;  "you  do  fidget  so  abominably,  and  stare  out  of  the 
window  so  continually." 

"  You  may  suppose  it,  if  you  like." 

"  Has  Lord  Paulyn  come  back  to  Ashcombe  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  his  lordship's  movements." 

"  Indeed  !  I  thought  he  was  about  the  only  person  in  whom 
you  were  interested,  and  I  began  to  think  you  had  received  pri- 
vate intelligence,  and  were  on  the  watch  for  him." 

"  I  am  not  on  the  watch  for  him,  nor  do  I  care  if  I  never  see 
him  again." 

"  What  a  change !     But  how  about  your  wager  in  that  case  P" 

"  My  wager !  what,  the  pearl  necklace,  you  mean  ?  Of  course 
you  knew  that  was  the  merest  nonsense  ?  " 

"  What!  are  you  going  to  back  out  of  it?  I  thought  it  was 
a  serious  challenge," 

"  Take  the  necklace,  if  you  like.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever 
wear  it  and  I  have  other  things  of  poor'  mamma's." 

"  But  does  that  mean  that  you  confess  yourself  beaten — that 
you  promised  more  than  you  feel  yourself  able  to  perform  ?  " 

"  Have  it  so,  if  you  like.  You  put  me  in  a  passion  that 
night,  and  I  said  anything,  only  to  annoy  you.  But  I  shall 
never  be  Lord  Paulyn's  wife." 

"  What  a  death-blow  for  poor  auntie !  She  had  set  her  heart 
upon  having  a  niece  in  the  peerage.  Her  Debrett  would  have 
opened  of  its  own  accord — like  the  book  Thackeray  speaks  of— 
at  the  article  Paulyn." 

The  sisters  were  dawdling  over  their  luncheon,  when  they 
heard  a  footstep  on  the  gravel,  and  anon  a  ring  at  the  hall-door. 
Blanche,  the  agile,  dashed  to  a  window  in  time  to  recognise  the 
visitor. 

"Now,  whoever  do  you  suppose  it  is,  girls?"  she  cried. 
"Guess!" 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  151 

Nobody  appeared  able  to  solve  the  enigma,  although  Eliza- 
beth's fast-beating  heart  told  her  the  visitor's  name. 

"  Mr.  Forde !"  cried  Blanche. 

"  He  has  come  to  tell  papa,  no  doubt,"  said  Gertnade,  tating 
a  hasty  survey  of  the  table,  to  see  that  the  mid-day  meal  made 
a  respectable  appearance,  and  then  going  straightway  to  the 
dining-room  door,  to  intercept  the  visitor.  "Papa  is  in  hia 
Btudy,  dear  Mr.  Forde."  she  said,  shaking  hands  with  him_;  "but 
do  come  in  first  and  have  a  little  luncheon. — Blanche,  ling  for 
some  fresh  cutlets." 

"  No,  thank  you,  Miss  Luttrell.  I  never  take  any  luncheon. 
And  I  do  particularly  want  to  see  the  Vicar." 

"But  I  told  him  everything,  and  he  is  so  grieved." 

"  I  don't  think  you  can  have  told  quite  everything,"  he 
answered,  with  a  stolen  look  at  Elizabeth,  who  was  standing 
just  within  the  doorway,  and  a  little  smile,  "and  I  hope  we 
shall  be  able  to  overcome  his  grief.  I  will  go  to  him  at  once, 
and  look  in  upon  you  young  ladies  in  the  drawing-room  after- 
wards." 

"  Now,  remember,  we  shall  expect  you,"  said  Gertrude,  with 
her  reverential  air,  hardly  sorry  that  he  had  been  proof  against 
the  temptation  of  the  hot  cutlet,  which  had  been  a  somewhat 
speculative  offer ;  since  there  might  or  might  not  be  a  section 
of  the  '  best  end  of  the  neck  '   in  reserve  in  the  larder. 

"  What  delightful  manners  !"  she  said,  as  she  went  back  to 
her  place  at  the  table ;  "  no  assumption  of  goodness,  no  con- 
sciousness of  possessing  a  loftier  nature  than  the  common 
herd." 

"  Why,  you  wouldn't  have  him  stalking  about  in  a  surpHce, 
or  expounding  the  Scriptures  on  the  doorstep,  would  you, 
Gerty  ?"  cried  the  irreverent  Blanche.  "  I  don't  see  why  sinners 
should  be  the  only  people  with  decent  manners." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  child  ;  you  are  incapable  of  understand- 
ing such  a  nature  as  his.  You  can  gaze  upon  that  saintly  brow 
•without  one  thrill  of  emotion." 

"  I  certainly  shouldn't  offer  mutton  cutlets  to  people  with 
saintly  brows;  I  have  more  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things," 
rephed  the  uncmshable  youngest. 

EUzabeth  said  nothing.  She  was  subject  to  long  lapses  of 
silence  in  the  company  of  her  sisters.  They  were  so  little  worth 
the  trouble  of  conversation.  And  now  she  had  sweet  thoughts 
that  filled  her  mind  while  they  were  babbling,— a  new  wealth  of 
happiness.  He  had  come  to  speak  to  her  father,  to  offer  him- 
self as  her  husband;  and  afterwards  he  would  come  to  the 
drawing-room,  and  she  would  know  the  result. 

"  Suppose  papa  should  reject  him,"  she  thought,  with  alarm. 
**  I  know  how  aunt  Chevenix   preached  to  him   about    Lord 


162  Slrangera  and  Pilgrimo. 

Paulyn,  and  the  brilliant  future  before  me.  But,  thank  Heaven, 
papa  is  not  mercenary;  so  long  as  he  is  not  disappointed  in 
his  dinners,  he  is  sure  to  take  things  easily." 

The  four  girls  repaired  to  the  drawing-room  soon  after  this, 
and  Gertrude  skirmished  round  the  room,  making  a  clearance 
of  litter — books  that  had  been  flung  down  anywhere,  work- 
baskets  overturned,  flying  sheets  of  music;  and  having  done 
this,  seated  herself  at  her  own  particular  little  table,  with  its 
neatly-kept  Dorcas  basket,  and  began  to  tear  calico.  Elizabeth 
subsided  into  her  favourite  chair  by  the  fire,  and  did  nothino^ 
after  her  wont — nothing,  except  look  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel* 
piece  every  now  and  then,  wondering  how  long  the  interview 
would  last. 

"  What  a  time  they  are !"  Blanche  exclaimed  at  last,  with  a 
yawn.  "  I  should  have  thought,  as  papa  knew  all  about  it, 
they'd  have  made  shorter  work  of  the  business." 

"  If  you  would  employ  yourself,  Blanche,  you  would  have  less 
time  for  idle  speculations  of  that  kind,"  said  Gertrude,  severely ; 
"  but  the  whole  weight  of  the  Dorcas  basket  is  allowed  to  fall 
on  my  shoulders." 

"  That's  the  worst  of  being  bom  too  good  for  this  world,  my 
dear  Gerty;  people  are  sure  to  impose  upon  you." 

The  door  was  opened  at  this  moment,  and  Mr.  Forde  came 
in,  and  crossed  the  room  to  Elizabeth's  place  by  the  fire,  and 
planted  himself  on  the  hearthrug  by  her  side,  towering  above 
her  as  she  sat  in  her  low  chair,  and  looking  down  at  her  with 
a  tender  smile.  The  sisters  stared  at  him  wcmderingly.  There 
was  an  air  of  appropriation  in  the  manner  of  his  greeting, 
grave  and  subdued  as  it  was. 

"All  has  ended  happily,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  as  they 
shook  hands.  "  You  will  meet  with  no  opposition  from  your 
father." 

"  Have  you  told  papa  everything,"  asked  Gertrude,  watching 
the  two  with  jealous  eyes. 

"  Everything." 

"  And  he  is  very  sorry,  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  A  little  disappointed,  perhaps,  but  hardly  sorry." 

"  Disappointed,  yes,  of  course.  He  had  hoped  you  would  stay 
with  us  at  least  three  years.  How  I  wish  he  could  have  per- 
suaded you  to  change  your  mind !" 

"  Suppose  I  have  changed  my  mind?"  said  Mr.  Forde,  smil- 
ing at  her  anxiety.  "  Suppose  1  have  found  an  influence  power- 
ful enough  to  make  me  forego  my  most  cherished  ambition  ?" 

"  I  don't  quite  understand,"  faltered  Gertrude,  looking  from 
him  to  Elizabeth  with  a  blank  dismayed  look.  "  You  seemed  to 
have  made  up  your  mind  so  completely  last  night.  What  can 
have  happened  since  then  to  make  you  waver?" 


Strangers  and  Pilgrimt  153 

"Wonderful  things  have  happened  to  me  since  last  night. 
All  my  thoughts  and  dreams  have  undergone  a  revolution.  I 
have  discovered  that  a  life  at  home  can  be  sweeter  to  me  than  I 
ever  dreamed  it  could  be— till  last  nighl ;  and  it  must  be  my 
endeavour  to  find  a  useful  career  for  myself  at  home.]' 

Gertrude  grew  deadly  pale.  Yes,  she  understood  it  all  now. 
He  was  looking  down  at  Elizabeth  while  he  spoke — looking 
down  at  her  with  love  unspeakable.  It  was  clear  enough  now. 
Ehzabeth  was  to  have  this  priceless  boon  flung  into  her  lap- 
Elizabeth,  who  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  it. 

"  I  want  you  to  accept  me  as  your  brother,  Gertrude,"  said 
Mr,  Forde ;  "  and  you  Diana,  and  you,  Blanche,  I  mean  to  do 
my  best  to  supply  the  place  of  the  brother  you  have  never  had." 

"There  was  the  baby,"  said  Blanche,  with  a  matter-of-fact 
air ;  "  »uch  a  poor  wee  thing  ! — christened  Wilmot  Chevenix 
Trelawney,  and  died  half  an  hour  afterwards.  Such  a  waste  of 
good  family  names  !  " 

Mr.  Forde  held  out  his  hand  as  he  made  this  offer  of  brotherly 
affection,  but  no  one  took  it.     Diana  gave  a  little  laugh,  and 

Sot  up  from  her  seat  to  look  out  of  the  window.     Gertrude  stood 
ke  a  statue,  looking  at  the  Curate. 

"  You  seem  surprised  by  my  news,  Miss  Luttrell,"  he  said  at 
last,  struck  by  her  singular  manner. 

"  I  am  more  than  surprised,"  said  Gertrude,  "  after  the  things  I 
have  heard  my  sister  say — after  some  things  that  you  have  said 
yourself,  too.  However,  I  suppose  one  ought  never  to  be  sur- 
prised at  anything  in  this  world.  I  hope  you  may  be  happy, 
Mr.  Forde;  but  I  do  not  remember  ever  having  heard  of  so  un- 
suitable a  match." 

She  said  this  with  calm  deliberation,  having  jast  sufficient 
eelf-command  to  keep  the  tempest  of  angry  feelings  pent  up  in 
her  breast  for  the  moment ;  and  having  delivered  herself  of  this 
opinion,  left  the  room. 

"  It  will  be  for  us  to  find  out  that,  won't  it,  Lizzie  ?  "  said  the 
Curate,  looking  after  her  wonderingly.  "Your  eldest  sister 
hardly  accepts  our  new  relationshij?  in  so  pleasant  a  spirit  as  1 
hoped  she  would  ha^e  shown  towards  me." 

"  Perhaps  she  wanted  you  for  herself,"  said  Elizabeth,  with  a 
scornful  laugh,     "  She  has  made  no  secret  of  worshipping  you." 

"  Diana,  Blanche,  we  are  to  be  good  friends,  I  hope  ?  "  This 
with  a  kind  of  appeal  to  the  two  others,  who  this  time  responded 
warmly  enough. 

"  Believe  me  there  is  no  one  we  could  like  better  than  you," 
said  Diana, 

"  I'm  sure  we  doat  upon  you,"  cried  Blanche.  "  I  may  say 
it  now  you  are  going  to  be  my  brother.  But,  you  see,  we  were 
taken  a  little  aback  at  first,  for  Elizabeth  is  the  beauty  of  our 


154  Strangers  and  Filgrim», 

family,  and  there  lias  been  s«  much  talk  with  annt  Chevenix 
and  one  and  another  about  the  grand  marriage  she  was  to  make ; 
go  it  does  seem  rather  a  come-down,  you  know." 

"  Blanche ! "  exclaimed  Elizabeth  furiously. 

"  Don't  I  say  that  we  all  doat  upon  him  P  "  expostulated 
Blanche.  "  But  however  good  your  family  may  be,  you  know, 
Mr.  Forde,  and  however  independent  your  position,  and  all  that 
kind  of  thing,  a  curate  isn't  a  viscount,  you  know;  and  after 
Lord  Paulyn's  attentions " 

"  Blanche  !     If  you  don't  hold  your  tongue " 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  her,"  pleaded  Malcolm.  "  I  can  for- 
give Lord  Paulyn  for  having  admired  you,  and  your  family  foi 
expecting  all  mankind  to  bow  down  and  worship  yon,  so  long  as 
you  can  forgive  me  for  having  made  you  disappoint  them." 

Diana  beheld  her  with  wonder.  Had  worldly  ambition,  had  a 
boldlj"-- declared  heartlessness  come  to  so  poor  an  end  as  this  ? 
But  when  Diana  and  Blanche  were  alone  together  presently, 
Elizabeth  having  gone  into  the  garden  to  see  her  lover  off,  with 
a  rapid  appropriation  of  her  rights  as  his  affianced,  the  youngei 
eister  shook  her  head  sagely. 

"  How  Wind  you  must  be,  Di !  "  she  said.  "  I  knew  all  about 
it  ever  so  long  ago.  She  was  always  madly  in  love  with  him. 
I  have  heard  her  say  such  things ! " 

"  I  used  to  fancy  she  liked  him  a  little  once,  but  I  thought 
Lord  Paulyn  had  put  all  that  out  of  her  head,  and  that  she  had 
set  her  heart  upon  becoming  a  viscountess." 

"  Elizabeth  is  a  mixture,"  said  Blanche  sententiously ;  "  one 
moment  the  most  mercenary  being  in  the  world,  and  the  next 
like  that  classic  party,  with  a  name  something  like  Sophia,  ready 
to  throw  herself  off  a  rock  for  love.  It'll  be  rather  nice,  though, 
to  have  Mr.  Forde  for  a  brother,  won't  it,  Di  ?  " 

"  It  would  have  been  nicer  to  have  had  a  viscount,"  respondei 
Diana. 

In  the  bleak  garden  once  more,  the  March  winds  buffeting 
them,  the  daffodils  waving  at  their  feet,  the  world  a  paradise. 

"  Was  papa  very  much  surprised  ?  "  inquired  Elizabeth. 

"Yes,  darling;  more  surprised  than  I  had  ex]oected  to  find 
him,  for  he  had  evidently  learned  to  consider  Lord  Paulyn 
almost  your  plighted  lover." 

**  How  absurd !  "  cried  the  girl  with  a  little  toss  of  her  head ; 
•*  such  an  idea  would  never  have  entered  papa's  mind  of  itself. 
He  is  not  a  person  to  have  ideas.  But  aunt  Chevenix  talked 
euch  rubbish,  just  because  Lord  Paulyn  came  here  a  good  deal. 
I  suppose  this  was  about  the  only  place  he  had  to  come  to,  on 
the  days  he  didn't  hunt." 

"  I  think  there  would  be  a  few  more  houses  open  to  him  within 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  155 

a  radius  of  ten  miles,  although  he  does  not  boar  a  very  high 
character,"  said  Mr,  Forde  gravely. 

"  Perhaps.  However  he  seemed  to  like  coming  here,"  replied 
Elizabeth  carelessly.  "  I  am  sorry  he  has  not  a  good  character, 
for  he  is  not  at  all  a  bad-natured  young  man,  although  one  is  apt 
to  get  tired  of  his  society  after  an  hour  or  so.  You  are  not 
going  to  be  jealous  of  him,  I  hope  ?  " 

"I  should  be  very  jealous  of  any  farther  friendship,  of  any 
farther  acquaintance  even,  between  him  and  my  future  wife.  He 
is  not  a  good  man,  believe  me,  Elizabeth.  There  are  things  I 
cannot  possibly  tell  you,  but  he  is  known  to  have  led  a  bad  life. 
I  think  you  must  know  that  I  am  not  a  collector  of  scandal,  but 
his  character  is  notorious." 

"You  were  jealous  of  him  that  Sunday  at  lunch,  Malcolm/' 
she  said  in  her  childish  way,  clinging  to  his  arm  with  a  timid 
fondness.  "  I  saw  you  scowling  at  us,  and  I  was  prouder  of 
your  anger  than  I  was  of  his  admiration ;  and  then  you  kept 
away,  and  I  saw  no  more  of  you  for  ages,  and  I  thought  you  a 
monster  of  coldness  and  cruelty." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  was  savagely  jealous  ;  and  0,  my  darling,  pro- 
mise me  that  there  shall  be  no  more  intimacy  between  that  man 
and  you.  I  hate  the  idea  of  this  visit  to  your  aunt's,  for  that 
reason  above  all.  You  will  meet  him  in  town,  perhaps ;  you 
will  have  aunt  Chevenix  by  your  side,  dropping  her  worldly 
poison  into  your  ear.  Will  you  be  deaf  to  all  her  arguments? 
Will  you  be  true  and  pure  and  noble  in  spite  of  her  ?  " 

"  I  will  be  nothing  that  you  disapprove,"  said  Elizabeth ;  and 
then  with  a  little  burst  of  truthfulness  she  went  on,  "  Do  trust 
me,  Malcolm.  I  only  want  just  one  little  peep  at  the  world 
before  I  bid  it  good-bye  for  ever — the  world  about  which  I  have 
dreamed  so  much.     It  wiH  be  only  for  a  few  weeks." 

"  Very  well,  dear,  I  will  trust  you.  If  you  could  not  pass 
scatheless  through  such  an  ordeal,  you  would  be  hardly  worthy 
of  an  honest  man's  love.  My  dearest  treasure,  I  will  hazard 
you.  I  think  I  can  trust  you,  Elizabeth.  But  if  you  cannot 
tome  back  to  me  pure  and  true,  for  God's  sake  let  me  never  look 
»fpon  your  face  again." 


SKC  OF  BOOK  THE  TIBBt. 


156  Strangers  and  Pilgrims* 

3Soo&  Vit  Setonti. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"Two  Bonis,  alas,  dwell  in  my  breast :  the  one  struggles  to  separata 
itself  from  the  other.  The  one  clings  with  obstinate  fondness  to  the 
world,  with  organs  like  cramps  of  steel  ;  the  other  lifts  itself  majeEtically 
from  the  mist  to  the  realms  of  an  exalted  ancestry." 

A  suNNT  afternoon  in  the  second  week  of  May,  one  of  those 
brilliant  spring  days  which  cheat  the  dweller  in  cities,  who  has 
no  indications  of  the  year's  progress  around  and  about  him — 
no  fields  of  newly-sprouting  corn,  or  hedges  where  the  black- 
thorn shows  silvery- white  above  grassy  banks  dappled  with 
violets  and  primroses — into  the  belief  that  summer  is  at  hand. 
The  citizen  has  no  succession  of  field  birds  to  serve  for  his  time- 
keepers, but  he  hears  canaries  and  piping  bullfinches  carolling 
in  balconies,  perhaps  sees  a  flower-girl  at  a  street- corner,  and 
begins  to  think  he  is  in  the  month  of  roses. 

It  seemed  the  month  of  roses  in  one  small  drawing-room  in 
Eaton-place-south — a  back  drawing-room  and  of  the  tiniesl^ 
with  a  fernery  of  dark  green  glass,  artfully  contrived  to  shed  a 
dim  religious  light  upon  the  chamber,  and  at  the  same  time 
mask  the  view  of  an  adjacent  mews — the  daintiest  possible  thing 
in  the  way  of  back  drawing-rooms,  furnished  with  chairs  and 
dwarf  couches  of  the  'pouff  species,  covered  with  cream-coloured 
cretonne  and  befrilled  muslin  ;  a  coffee-table  or  two  in  con- 
venient corners;  the  clock  on  the  maroon- velvet-covered  mantel- 
piece, a  chubby  Cupid  in  turquoise  Sevres  beating  a  drum  ;  the 
candelabra,  two  other  chubby  blue  bantlings  struggling  under 
their  burden  of  wax-candles ;  curtains  of  maroon  velvet  and 
old  Flemish  lace  half  screening  the  fire  in  the  low  steel  grate- 
Ensconced  in  the  most  luxurious  of  the  povffs,  with  her  feet  o^ 
the  tapestried  fender-stool  (a  joint  labour  of  the  four  Luttrell 
girls),  and  a  large  green  fan  between  her  face  and  the  glow,  sat 
Elizabeth  Luttrell.  She  was  not  alone.  Aunt  Chevenix  was 
writing  letters  at  her  davenport  in  tlie  front  drawing-room ;  the 
swift  flight  of  her  quill  pen  miofht  be  heard  ever  and  anon  in 
the  rearward  chamber;  and  lEeginald  Paulyn  was  sitting 
d  cheval  upon  a  smaller  fon^,  rockn.g  himself  to  and  fro,  to  the 
en(iangerment  of  the  castors,  as  he  discoursed. 

"  C"me  now.  Miss  Luttrell,  I  want  you  to  like  Mrs. 
Oinqniars,"  he  said,  in  an  argumentative  tone.  "  She  may  not 
»e  quite  what  you'd  call  good  style " 

"  I  know  very  Uttle  of  good  or  bad  style,"  interrupted  Eliza* 
beth,  in  a  somewhat  contemptuous  tone;  "your  world  is  so  new 
to  me.     B"*  certainly  Mrs.  Cinqmars  has  hardly  what  that 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims,  ■    157 

French  secretaiy  of  legation  I  went  in  to  dinner  -wxtli  the  othw 
night  called  Vair  du  faahottrg." 

"  Well,  no,  perhaps  not;  dresses  a  little  too  much,  and  indulges 
rather  too  freely  in  slang,  perhaps.  But  she's  the  most  kind- 
hearted  creature  in  the  ^YorId ;  gives  the  best  parties  out — not 
your  high-and-mighty  nine  o'clock  dinners,  with  cabinet 
ministers  and  ambassadors  and  foreign  princelings,  and  so 
forth,  but  carpet  dances,  and  acting  charades,  and  impromptu 
suppers,  and  water  parties.  You  go  to  her  house  to  amuse 
yourself,  in  short,  and  not  to  do  the  civil  to  a  lot  of  elderly 
fogies  with  orders  at  their  button-holes,  or  to  talk  politics  with 
some  heavy  swell  whose  name  is  always  cropping  up  in  the  Timeo 
leaders." 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Cinqmars  P  "  inquired  EUzabeth  with  a  super- 
jilious  air. 

"  Henri  du  Chatelet  de  Cinqmars.  Bom  a  Belgian,  of  a 
French- Canadian  father  and  an  English  mother — that's  his 
nationality.  Made  his  money  upon  various  stock  exchanges, 
and  continues  so  to  make  it,  only  extending  his  operations  now 
and  then  by  buying  up  a  steamboat  line,  or  something  in  that 
way.  A  man  who  will  burst  up  some  of  these  days,  no  doubt, 
and  pay  ninepence  or  so  in  the  pound ;  but  in  the  mean  time  he 
lives  very  decently  at  the  rate  of  twenty  thousand  a  year.  He 
has  literary  proclivities,  too,  and  is  editor  and  proprietor  of  the 
Ring,  a  weekly  paper  m  the  sporting  and  theatrical  interests, 
with  a  mild  flavour  of  the  Age  and  the  Satirist,  which  you  may 
or  may  not  have  seen." 

"  I  never  look  at  newspapers,"  said  Elizabeth ;  "  but  pray 
why  are  you  so  anxious  that  I  should  like  your  Mrs.  du  Chtitelet 
de  Cinqmars?  "  she  asked,  lowering  her  fan  and  gratifying  the 
Viscount  with  an  inquiring  gaze  from  her  brilliant  eyes,  more 
than  ever  brilliant  since  she  had  drunk  the  sparkling  cup  of 
London  pleasures. 

"  Because  she's  the  nicest  person  you  could  possibly  have  for 
a  chaperon.  Ah,  of  course,  I  know,"  answering  her  glance  in 
the  direction  of  the  busy  letter- writer,  whose  substantial  form 
was  visible  in  the  distance;  "  your  aunt  is  a  plucky  old  party, 
and  can  stand  a  good  deal  of  knocking  about  for  a  veteran,  but 
I  think  she'd  knock  under  if  she  tried  Mrs.  Cinqmars'  work : 
that  blessed  little  woman  shows  up  at  every  race  in  Great 
Britain — from  Pontefract  to  the  Curragh — and  at  every  regatta; 
and  in  the  autumn  you  find  her  at  Hombourg  or  Baden,  gam- 
bling like  old  boots.  Now,  if  you  would  only  put  yourself  under 
her  wing,"  concluded  Lord  Paulyn  persuasively,  "  you'd  stand 
Bome  chance  of  seeing  life." 

"Thank  you  very  much;  but  I  think  I  have  seen  enough  in 
i,he  last  five  weeks  to  last  me  for  the  remainder  of  my  eristence. 


158  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

Mrs.  Cinqmars  is  a  most  good-natured  person,  no  doul)t ;  sh« 
called  me  '  my  dear'  lialf  an  hour  after  I'd  been  introduced  tf 
her;  and  I  won't  be  so  rude  as  to  say  that  she's  not  good  style; 
but  she'  ^  not  my  style,  and  I  shouldn't  care  about  knowing  her 
more  in  imately.  Besides,  papa  wants  me  at  home,  and  I  am 
really  ai  xious  to  go  back." 

She  smiled  to  herself  with  a  pensive  smile ;  thinking  what 
reason  she  had  for  this  anxiety;  thinking  of  the  quiet  country 
town,  the  gray  old  Norman  church,  with  its  wide  aisles  and 
ponderous  square  tower — the  church  along  whose  bare  arched 
roof  Malcolm  Forde's  deep  voice  echoed  resonantly;  thinking  of 
that  widely-different  life,  with  its  sluggish  calm,  and  that  it 
would  be  very  sweet  to  go  back  to  it,  now  that  lite  at  Hawleigh 
meant  happy  triumphant  love,  and  Malcolm  for  her  bond-slave. 

But,  in  the  mean  time,  this  other  and  more  mundane  existence, 
with  its  picture-galleries,  and  gardens  botanical  or  horticultural 
putting  forth  their  first  floral  efforts,  its  dinners  and  dejeuners 
and  kettle-drums  and  carpet  dances,  was  something  more  than 
tolerable  to  the  soul  of  Elizabeth.  She  had  made  a  success  in 
her  aunt's  circle,  which  was  by  no  means  a  narrow  one,  and  had 
received  adulation  enough  to  turn  a  stronger  brain ;  had  found 
the  cup  of  pleasure  filled  to  overflowing,  and  new  worshipj^era 
everywhere  she  appeared.  Had  Mrs.  Chevenix  been  a  step  or 
two  higher  on  the  nicely-graduated  platform  of  society,  Miss 
Luttrell  might  have  been  the  belle  of  the  season;  as  it  was, 
people  talked  of  her  as  the  beautiful  Miss  Luttrell,  a  country 
clergyman's  daughter,  a  mere  nobody,  but  a  nobody  whom  it 
was  a  solecism  not  to  have  met. 

She  accepted  this  homage  with  an  air  of  calm  indifference, 
something  bordering  even  upon  arrogance  or  supercihousness, 
which  told  well  for  her ;  but  in  her  secret  soul  she  absorbed  the 
praises  of  mankind  greedily. 

She  showed  herself  an  adept  in  the  art  of  flirtation,  and  had 
given  so  much  apparent  encouragement  to  Lord  Paulyn,  that, 
although  she  had  been  only  five  weeks  in  town,  her  engagement 
to  that  young  nobleman  was  already  an  established  fact  in  the 
minds  of  people  who  had  seen  them  together.  But  she  was  not 
the  less  constant  to  her  absent  lover ;  not  the  less  eager  for  his 
brief  but  earnest  letters.  She  looked  forward  to  her  future 
without  a  pang  of  regret — with  rapturous  anticipation,  rather, 
of  a  little  heaven  upon  earth  with  the  man  she  adored.  But 
she  thought  at  the  same  time  that  her  chosen  husband  was  a 
peculiarly  privileged  being,  and  that  he  had  need  to  rejoice  with 
a  measureless  joy  in  having  won  so  rare  a  prize. 

*'  If  he  could  see  the  attention  1.  receive  here,  h3  might 
think  it  almost  strange  that  I  should  love  him  better  than  ali 
♦h©  rest  of  the  world,"  ahe  said  to  herself. 


Strangers  and  Pilginms.  0^169 

"  Going  back  to  Hawleigh ! "  cried  Lord  Paulyn  aghast. 
"  Why,  you  mustn't  dream  of  such  a  thing  till  after  the  Good-* 
wood  week !     I  have  set  my  heart  on  showing  you  Goodwood." 

"  What  is  Goodwood  ?  "  asked  Elizabeth,  thinking  it  might 
be  some  new  kind  of  game — an  improvement  upon  croquet 
perhaps;  "and  when  is  the  Goodwood  week?  " 

"  Towards  the  end  of  July." 

"  In  July;  that  would  never  do.  I  must  go  home  in  a  fort- 
night at  the  latest." 

•'  Why,  your  aunt  told  me  you  were  coming  up  for  the 
season ! " 

"  My  aunt  had  no  right  to  say  anything  of  the  kind." 

"  0,  but  it's  positively  absurd,"  exclaimed  the  Viscount, 
"  going  back  just  when  there'll  be  most  people  in  town,  and  to 
such  a  dingy  old  hole  as  Hawleigh.  What  possible  necessity 
can  there  be  for  your  returning?  Mr.  Lnttrell  has  your  three 
sisters  to  take  care  of  him.    He'll  do  well  enough,  I  should  think." 

"  O,  yes,  I  daresay  he  will  get  on  very  well,"  said  Elizabeth, 
thinking  of  another  person  who  had  written  lately  to  inquire, 
rather  seriously,  whether  the  few  weeks  were  not  nearly 
over,  whether  she  had  not  had  ample  time  already  for  a  brief 
survey  of  a  world  whose  pomps  and  vanities  she  was  going  to 
renounce  for  ever,  only  thereby  conforming  to  the  pious  pro- 
mises of  her  godfathers  and  godmothers,  which  her  own  lips 
had  ratified  at  her  confirmation. 

"  Come,  now,"  said  Lord  Paulyn,  returning  to  the  charge, 
•'  do  let  me  arrange  an  alliance  between  you  and  Mrs.  Cinq- 
mars.  She's  just  the  kind  of  person  with  whom  you  could 
enjoy  yourself.  She  has  a  box  on  the  grand-stand  at  Epsom 
and  Ascot  every  year — I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  had  bought 
the  freehold  of  them — and  always  takes  a  brace  of  pretty  girls 
with  her.  If  you  would  only  let  her  drive  you  down  to  the 
Derby  now,  to-morrow  week,  I'll  be  responsible  for  your  having 
a  delightful  day ;  and  I'll  be  in  attendance  to  show  you  every- 
thing and  everybody  worth  seeing." 

"  Thanks.     1  don't  think  my  aunt  cares  for  Mrs.  Cinqmars." 

"You  aunt  is  about  a  century  behind  the  times;  but  per- 
haps Flora — Mrs.  C. — hasn't  been  civil  enough  to  her.  Let  me 
drive  you  and  Mrs.  Chevenix  down  to  Pulham  this  afternoon. 
Tuesday's  her  day  for  receiving,  and  you'll  see  no  end  of  nice 
people  there.  I'll  send  my  groom  for  the  drag,  and  take  you 
through  the  Park  in  good  style." 

A  four-in-hand  seemed  to  Elizabeth  the  glory  and  triumph 
of  the  age;  and  there  was  nothing  particular  in  the  Eaton- 
place  programme  for  this  afternoon. 

"  I  should  like  it  very  well,"  she  said,  brightening,  "  if  auntie 
would  consent." 


IGO  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

"  O,  I'll  soon  settle  that,"  replied  Lord  Paulyn,  rising  from 
ais  pouff,  and  going  into  the  next  room. 

Mrs.  Chevenix,  after  a  little  diplomatic  hesitation,  conseated 
to  everything  except  the  drag. 

"  No  young  lady,  with  a  proper  regai'd  for  her  reputation, 
can  ride  on  the  box-seat  of  a  four-in-hand,  unless  the  coach- 
man is  her  brother  or  her  husband." 

*'  I  am  very  glad  I'm  not  the  first,  in  this  case,"  said  Lord 
Paulyn;  "  and  I  certainly  mean  to  be  the  second,  if  I  can." 

These  were  tlie  plainest  words  the  Viscount  had  yet  spoken, 
and  they  moved  the  spirit  of  aunt  Chevenix  with  exceeding  joy, 
albeit  she  knew  that  her  niece  was  engaged  to  Mr.  Forde. 

"  If  you  really  wish  us  to  visit  Mrs.  Cinqmars — and  you 
know,  dear  Lord  Paulyn,  there  is  very  little  I  would  not  do  to 
oblige  you,"  she  said,  with  a  maternal  air — "  I'U  take  Lizzie 
down  to  the  Eancho  in  the  brougham,  and  you  can  join  us  there 
if  you  like.  Mrs.  Cinqmars  has  called  upon  me  several  times, 
and  I  have  not  returned  her  visits.  She  seems  a  very  good- 
natured  little  person;  but,  you  see,  I  am  getting  an  old 
woman,  and  don't  care  much  about  cultivating  new  acquaint- 
ance." 

Thus  Mrs.  Chevenix,  who  would  have  run  herself  into  a  fever 
in  the  pursuit  of  an  unknown  countess. 

Lord  Paulyn  waived  the  question  of  the  drag  regretfully. 

"  My  horses  haven't  been  as  fit  as  they  are  to-day  since  they 
came  from  grass,"  he  said,  "  but  I'll  drive  down  alone.  What 
time  will  you  start?  It's  just  four;  Mrs.  Cinqmars  is  always 
in  full  force  from  five  to  six." 

"  If  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  ring  the  bell,  I'll  order  the 
carriage  for  a  quarter  to  five.  I  shall  have  time  to  dress  after 
I've  finished  my  letters  for  the  general  post." 

"  Can't  think  how  any  one  can  write  letters,  now  we've  got 
the  telegraph,"  said  Lord  Paulyn,  staring  in  amazement  at 
aunt  Chevenix's  bulky  despatches ;  "  I  always  wire." 

"  But  if  you  were  in  love,  and  separated  from  the  object  of 
your  aff'ection  ?  "  suggested  Mrs.  Chevenix,  smiling. 

"  I  should  wire :  or  if  I  had  something  uncommonly  spooney 
to  say,  I  might  spell  it  backwards  in  the  second  column  of  the 
Times.  I  don't  know  how  to  write  a  letter:  indeed,  I'm  not  at 
all  clear  that  I  haven't  forgotten  how  to  write  long-hand  alto- 
gether. I  keej)  my  betting-book  in  cipher;  and  when  I  send  a 
telegram,  I  always  dictate  the  message  to  the  post-office  clerk." 

"  But  I  should  have  thought  now,  with  respect  to  your  race- 
horses, the  telegraph  system  might  be  dangerous.  There  are 
things  you  want  to  keep  dark,  as  you  call  it,  are  there  not  ?  " 

"  Of  course  there  are.  But  we've  got  our  code,  my  trainer 
tttid  I,  an.,1   lS'  private  names  for  every  brut«  ic  ray  stable. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  161 

Got  a  message  this  morning :  "  Bryant  and  May  taken  to  tlia 
bassoon."  By  which  I  know  that  Yesuvian,  a  two-year-old 
I  was  backing  for  next  year,  has  been  run  out  of  her  wind  -in 
some  confounded  trial,  and  is  musical." 

"  Musical ! " 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  a  roarer,  if  yon  want  it  in  plain  English." 

"Dear  me,  how  provoking!"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix,  with  a 
sympathetic  countenance,  but  with  not  the  faintest  idea  what 
the  Viscount  meant. 

Elizabeth  consented  to  the  Rancho  business  languidly. 

"  I'd  rather  stay  at  home  and  finish  my  novel,"  she  said, 
looking  at  an  open  novel  lying  on  one  of  the  'pouffs.  "  You 
can't  imagine  what  an  exciting  chapter  you  interrupted.  Lord 
Paulyn;  but  of  course  I  shall  go  if  auntie  hkes.  Auntie  has 
Buch  an  insatiable  appetite  for  society." 

Mrs.  Chevenix  raised  her  eyebrows,  and  regarded  her  niece 
with  admiring  wonder.  "  Who  would  ever  imagine  the  child 
had  been  reared  in  a  Devonshire  vicarage !  "  she  exclaimed,  as 
Elizabeth  sat  fanning  herself,  an  image  of  listless  grace. 

"  Who  would  have  supposed  Venus  came  out  of  the  sea ! " 
r<'plied  the  Viscount.  "  She  didn't  look  weedy,  or  sandy,  or 
shell-fishy,  that  ever  I  heard  of;  but  came  up  smiling,  with  her 
hair  combed  out  as  neatly  as  the  tails  and  manes  of  my  fillies. 
And  as  to  rustic  bringing  up,  there  was  that  young  woman  in 
the  play — Lady  Teazle,  you  know.     See  how  she  carried  on." 

The  Viscount  departed  after  this,  happy  in  the  prospect  of 
meeting  Elizabeth  an  hour  later  in  the  happy  hunting-grounds 
of  the  Rancho,  perhaps  the  best  field  for  tiirtation  within  three 
miles  of  Hyde-park- corner. 

"  Eliziiibeth,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chevenix,  when  they  were  alone, 
with  an  air  of  almost  awful  solemnity,  "  there  is  a  coronet  lying 
at  your  feet,  if  you  have  only  the  wisdom  to  pick  it  up.  I  am 
not  going  to  make  any  complaint,  or  to  express  my  opinions,  or 
to  say  anythiag  in  disparagement  of  that  person.  I  have  kept 
my  feelings  upon  that  subject  locked  within  my  breast,  at  any 
cost  of  pain  to  myself.  But  if,  when  you  have  looked  around 
you,  and  seen  what  the  world  is  made  of,  you  can  be  so  in- 
fatuated as  to  persist  in  your  mad  course,  I  can  only  pity  you." 

"  Don't  take  the  trouble  to  do  that,  auntie.  I  can  imagine  no 
higher  happiness  than  that  which  I  have  chosen.  A  coronet  is 
a  grand  thing,  of  course,  with  all  the  other  things  that  go  along 
with  it.  I  am  not  going  to  pretend  that  I  don't  care  for  the 
world  and  its  pleasures.  I  do  care  for  them.  I  have  enjoyed 
my  life  in  the  last  three  weeks  more  than  I  thought  it  possible 
that  life  could  be  enjoyed.  I  fear  that  I  have  an  infinite  capa 
city  for  frivolity.  And  yet  I  shall  be  proud  to  surrender  all 
these  things  for  the  love  of  the  ma»  I  have  chosen."  -r 


162  Strangers  and  I'ilgrims, 

"  The  man  you  have  chosen  ! "  repeated  Mrs.  Chevenix,  with 
a  shiver.  "  My  dearest  Lizzie,  is  there  not  a  shade  of  indelicacy 
in  the  very  ph  rase  ?  " 

"I  can't  help  that,"  answered  Elizabeth  coolly;  "  I  know  that 
I  did  choose  him.  I  chose  him  out  from  all  creation  for  the 
lord  of  my  life,  worshipped  him  in  secret  when  I  thought  he 
was  indifiereut  to  me ;  should  have  died  of  a  broken  heart,  I 
believe,  or  at  any  rate  of  mortification  and  disappointment,  if 
he  had  never  returned  my  love." 

This  was  a  bold  declaration  intended  to  extinguish  aunt 
Chevenix  at  once  and  for  ever. 

"  My  poor  child,"  said  the  matron,  shaking  her  head  with  a 
deploring  air,  "  I  am  inexpressibly  grieved  to  hear  you  speak  in 
that  wild  manner  of  such  a  person  as  your  father's  curate.  A 
man  in  that  position  cannot  afford  to  be  loved  in  that  ex- 
aggerated way.  A  grande  passion,  is  ont  of  keeping  among 
people  with  limited  incomes  and  their  career  to  make  in  the 
world.  With  people  of  established  position  it  is  different,  of 
course  ;  and  though  I  might  smile  at  such  an  infatuation,  were 
you  to  entertain  it  for  Lord  Paulyn,  I  could  hardly  disapprove. 
You  and  he  would  be  as  far  removed  from  the  vulgar  herd  of 
engaged  persons  as  a  prince  and  princess  in  a  fairy  tale,  and 
might  safely  indalge  in  some  httle  extravagance." 

"  You  need  fear  very  little  extravagance  on  my  part  if  Lord 
Paulyn  were  my  accepted  lover,"  answered  Elizabeth,  with  a 
cynical  laugh.  "  Imagine  any  one  mated  to  that  prosaic  being, 
with  his  slang  and  his  stable  talk  ! " 

"In  spite  of  those  small  drawbacks — which,  after  all,  are 
natural  to  his  youth  and  open-hearted  disposition — I  believe  him 
to  be  callable  of  a  most  devoted  attachment.  I  have  seen  him 
gaze  at  you,  Elizabeth,  in  a  way  that  made  my  blood  run  cold 
when  I  considered  that  you  were  capable  of  trampling  upon 
such  a  heart  for  the  sake  of  a  Scotch  curate.  However,  I  will 
say  nothing,"  concluded  Mrs.  Chevenix  with  heroism,  after 
havitg  said  all  she  wanted  to  say. 

In  half-an-hour  the  two  ladies  were  dressed,  and  on  their  way 
to  Fulham;  Elizabeth  enveloped  in  a  fleecy  cloud  of  whiteness, 
with  gleams  of  lustrous  mauve  here  and  there  among  her 
drapery,  and  a  mauve  feather  in  her  white-chip  hat,  glovea 
faultless,  parasol  a  gem :  a  toilet  whose  finishing  touches  had 
been  furnished  by  the  well-filled  purse  of  Mrs.  Chevenix.  The 
matron  herself  was  resplendent  in  bronze  silk,  and  an  imposing 
blue  bonnet.  They  had  put  on  their  richest  armour  for  the  en- 
counter with  Mrs.  Cinqmars,  a  lady  who  spent  her  life  in  trying 
to  dress-down  her  acquaintance. 


Strangers  and  Filgrims.  168 


CHAPTER  II. 

"Applause 
Waits  on  success  ;  the  fickle  multitude, 
Like  the  light  straw  that  floats  along  the  stream, 
Glide  with  the  current  still,  and  follow  fortune." 

FuLHAM  18  a  neighbourhood  of  infinite  capabilities.  It  is 
almost  impossible  to  know  the  ultimate  boundaries  of  a  region 
to  which  nature  seems  to  have  hardly  yet  assigned  any  limit ; 
from  squalid  streets  of  six-roomed  houses,  to  splendid  places 
surrounded  by  park-like  grounds ;  from  cemeteries  and  market- 
gardens— bare  expanses  of  asparagus  or  turnips,  where  the 
atmosphere  is  rank  with  decaying  garden  stuffs — to  arenas 
reserved  for  the  competition  of  the  fleet- footed  and  strong-armed 
of  our  modern  youth,  and  to  shady  groves  dedicated  to  the 
slaughter  of  the  harmless  pigeon  ;  from  newly-built  red-brick 
mansions  hiding  themselves  coyly  within  high  walls,  and 
darkened  by  the  shade  of  immemorial  cedars.  Fulham  has 
stomach  for  them  all.  Queer  little  lanes  still  lead  the  explorer 
to  unknown  (or  at  least  to  him  unknown)  tracts  of  inland 
country;  and  on  that  wild  shore  between  the  bridges  of  Putney 
and  Hammersmith  there  are  far- spreading  gardens  and  green 
lawns  which  a  worldly-minded  person  might  long  for  as  the 
paradise  of  his  departed  soul. 

The  Rancho  was  one  of  these  places  by  the  river;  a  house  and 
grounds  which,  after  belonging  to  a  titled  owner,  had  sunk  to 
gradual  decay  under  undistinguished  and  incapable  tenants  ; 
and,  at  last,  coming  into  the  market  for  a  larger  price  than 
speculators  were  inclined  to  give,  had,  after  hanging  on  hand 
for  a  long  time,  been  finally  bought  a  dead  bargain  by  Mr. 
Cinqmars. 

This  gentleman,  being  amply  provided  with  funds — whether 
his  own  or  otlier  people's  was,  of  course,  a  minor  question — and 
being,  moreover,  blessed  with  a  wife  who  had  a  taste,  set  to  work 
to  remodel  the  house,  which  was  old  and  not  capacious,  and  al- 
together in  that  condition  in  which  it  is  cheaper  to  pull  down 
than  to  rebuild.  Mr.  Cinqmars,  however,  left  the  lower  recep- 
tion rooms,  which  were  fine,  almost  untouched,  only  widening  the 
windows  in  the  drawing-room  to  the  whole  width  of  the  room, 
and  putting  a  glass  roof  to  the  billiard-room,  which  could  be 
replaced  by  an  awning  in  warm  weather,  or  thrown  open  to  the 
sky  on  starlit  summer  nights.  On  each  side  of  these  central 
rooms  he  built  a  commodious  wing,  in  rustic  wood-work,  alter 
the  model  of  a  Mexican  farmhouse  in  which  he  had  once  spent 
a  week  during  his  travels.  All  round  the  house  he  put  a  woodeu 
verandah,  ten  feet  wide,  and  paved  with  cool  blue  and  cream< 


lG4i  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

rcloured  tiles ;  and  having  done  this  he  furnished  all  the  rooma 
in  the  purest  rustic  fashion — with  light  woods ;  pastoral  chintzea 
Bcattered  with  violets  and  primroses ;  no  drajjeries  to  the  win- 
dows, which  were  amply  shaded  by  Venetian  blinds  within  and 
Spanish  hoods  without  ;  very  few  carpets,  but  oak  floors 
polished  to  distraction,  and  Indian  matting  in  the  passages.  It 
was  a  house  that  was  built  apparently  for  eternal  summer,  but 
was  yet  so  contrived  as  to  be  extremely  comfortable  when  March 
winds  were  howling  round  the  verandah,  or  an  April  snowstorm 
drilling  against  the  glass  roof  of  the  billiard-room.  On  a  real 
summer's  day  it  was  distractingly  delightful;  and  to  return 
from  its  light  and  airy  chambers  to  the  dingy  square  rooma  of  a 
London  house— a  mere  packing-case  set  upon  end  in  a  row  of 
other  packing-cases — was  not  conducive  to  the  preservation,  of  a 
contented  mind. 

_  But  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cinqmars  were  people  who  could  not  have 
lived  in  a  house  that  was  not  better  than  everybody  else's 
house.  They  were  people  who  lived  upon  their  surroundings ; 
their  surroundings  were  themselves,  as  it  were.  If  anybody 
asked  who  Mr.  Cinqmars  was,  his  friends  and  admirers  plunged 
at  once  into  a  glowing  description  of  the  Eancho,  or  demanded 
with  an  air  of  amazement  how  it  came  to  pass  you  had  not 
seen  his  horses  in  the  park — high-stepping  bays,  with  brass- 
mounted  harness.  There  was  a  place  in  Scotland  too,  which 
Mr.  Cinqmars  spoke  of  somewhat  vaguely,  and  which  might  be 
anything,  from  half  a  county  down  to  half-a-dozen  acres.  He 
was  in  the  habit  of  promising  his  acquaintance  good  shooting 
on  that  domain ;  but  in  the  hurry  and  pressure  of  modern  life 
these  promises  are  rarely  fulfilled.  Every  man's  autumn  is 
mortgaged  before  the  spring  is  over;  there  is  nothing  safer 
than  a  Hberal  dealing  out  of  general  invitations  in  June  or  July. 
Mrs.  Cinqmars  was  at  home  every  Tuesday  throughout  the 
London  season,  and  to  be  at  home  with  Mrs.  Cinqmars  meant  a 
great  deal.  The  grounds  of  the  Rancho  were  simply  perfect — 
ancient  gardens,  with  broad  lawns  gently  sloping  to  the  water; 
lawns  whose  deep  fend  tender  herbage  had  been  cultivated  for 
ages ;  forest  trees  which  shut  out  the  world  on  every  side 
excL'pt  that  noble  curve  of  the  river  which  made  a  shallow  bay 
before  the  windows  of  the  Eancho;  cedars  of  Lebanon  spreading 
their  dusky  branches  wide  above  the  shadowy  sward.  Mrs. 
Cinqmars  did  not  to  any  great  extent  alFect  gaudy  flower-beds 
— parallelograms  of  scarlet  geranium  and  calceolaria,  silver- 
gray  leafage,  and  potting-out  plants  of  the  pickling-cabbage 
order — or  ribbon  bordering.  Are  not  these  things  common  to 
all  tlie  world  ?  Instead  of  these,  she  had  masses  of  rough 
stonework  and  young  forests  of  fern  in  the  shady  corners  of 
bcr  grounds,   and  a  regiment  of  century-old  orange-trees  ia 


Isf rangers  and  Filgrima.  1G5 

great  green  tubs,  ranged  along  a  broad  walk  leading  down 
to  the  river.  Her  grounds  were  shady  realms  of  greenery, 
rather  than  showy  parterres.  She  had  her  hot-houses  and 
forcing-pits  somewhere  in  the  background,  and  all  her  rooms 
were  adorned  to  profusion  with  the  choicest  Howers ;  but  only 
in  the  rose  season  was  there  much  display  of  colour  in  the 
P'lrdens  of  the  Eancho.  Then,  indeed,  Mrs.  Cinqmars'  lawn 
was  as  some  fertile  valley  in  Cashmere,  and  the  very  atmosphere 
which  Mrs.  Cinqmars  inhaled  was  heavy  with  the  odours  of  all 
ilie  noblest  and  choicest  families  among  the  rose  tribe — arcades 
of  roses,  roses  climbin^Ej  skyward  upon  iron  rods,  temples  that 
looked  like  gigantic  Inrdcages  overrun  with  roses,  roses  every- 
where— for  a  brief  season  of  glory  and  delight,  the  season  of 
fresh  strawberry  ices,  and  mature  but  not  overgrown  whitebait. 
On  these  her  days,  Mrs.  Cinqmars  kept  open  house  from  five 
o'clock  upwards.  There  was  a  great  dinner  later  in  the  evening, 
but  by  no  means  a  formal  banquet,  for  the  men  who  came  in 
moruinf,-  dress  to  lounge  remained  to  dine;  mature  matrons, 
whose  bonnets  were  as  things  immovable,  were  permitted  to 
dine  in  that  kind  of  headgear;  there  was  a  general  air  of 
Bohemianism  about  the  Eancho ;  billiards  were  played  till  the 
summer  daylight;  the  sound  of  cabs  and  phaetons,  dog-carts 
and  single  broughams,  startled  the  slumbering  echoes  in  the 
Fulham  lanes  between  midnight  and  sunrise;  the  goddess  of 
pleasure  was  worshipped  in  a  thorough-going  unqualified 
manner,  as  intense  as  the  devotion  which  inspired  human 
sacrifices  on  the  shrine  of  mooned  Ashtaroth. 

In  fine  weather,  when  the  sun  was  bright  and  the  air  balmy, 
and  only  occasional  shivers  reminded  happy  idlers  that  an 
English  climate  is  treacherous,  Mrs.  Cinqmars  delighted  to 
receive  her  friends  in  the  garden.  Innumerable  arm-chairs  of 
foreign  basket-work  were  to  be  found  in  snug  little  corners  of 
the  grounds ;  tiny  tables  were  ready  for  the  accommodation  of 
teacups  or  ice-plates.  Champagne  and  claret-cup  were  as 
bounteously  provided  as  if  those  beverages  had  been  running 
streams,  watering  the  velvet  lawns  and  meandering  through  the 
groves  of  the  Rancho.  Wenham's  clear  ice  was  as  plentiful  as 
if  the  Thames  had  been  one  solid  block  from  Thames  to  Nore. 
There  was  no  croquet.  In  this,  as  in  the  flower-beds,  Mrs. 
Cinqmars  had  been  forestalled  by  all  the  world.  But  as  a 
substitute  for  this  universal  recreation,  Mrs.  Cinqmars  had 
imported  all  manner  of  curious  games  upon  queer  little  tables 
with  wiry  mazes,  and  bells  and  balls,  at  which  a  good  deal 
of  money  and  a  still  larger  amount  of  the  manufacture  of  Piver 
or  Jou-^an  were  lost  and  won  on  that  lady's  Tuesdays.  The 
chatelaine  herself  even  was  not  insensible  to  the  offerings  of 
gloves ;  she  had  indeed  an  insatiable  appetite  for  that  "com« 


166  Strangers  and  Pilgrims^ 

modity,  and  absorbed  so  many  packets  of  apricot  and  lavendef 
treble  buttons  from  her  numerous  admirers,  that  it  might  be 
supposed  that  her  husband,  while  lavishiug  upon  her  every 
other  luxury,  altogether  denied  her  these  emblems  of  civili- 
sation. But  as  Mrs.  Cinqmars  was  never  seen  in  a  glove 
^hich  appeared  to  have  been  worn  more  than  half-an-hour,  it 
may  be  fairly  imagined  that  her  consumption  of  the  article  was 
large.  Taking  a  moderate  view  of  the  case,  and  supposing 
that  she  wore  only  three  pairs  per  diem,  she  would  require 
more  than  a  thousand  pairs  per  annum,  and  this  last  straw 
in  the  expenses  of  her  sumptuous  toilet  may  have  broken  Mr. 
Cinqmars'  back.  However  this  might  be,  Mrs.  Cinqmars  was 
singularly  successful  in  all  these  small  games  of  chance, 
trinpered  by  skill,  and  did  a  good  deal  of  ladylike  speculation 
upon  various  races  into  the  bargain,  whereby  the  glove-boxes, 
not  paltry  toys  made  to  hold  half-a-dozen  or  so,  but  huge 
caskets  of  carved  sandal  wood,  with  partitions  for  the  divers 
colours,  were  never  empty.  Young  men  were  seen  approaching 
her  through  the  groves  of  the  Rancho  armed  with  dainty 
oblong  packages,  their  humble  tribute  to  the  goddess  of  the 
grove,  tribute  which  she  i-eceived  with  a  business-like  coolness, 
as  her  due.  There  were  malicious  people  who  hinted  that  Mrs. 
Cinqmars  was  not  inaccessible  to  larger  offerings ;  that  diamond 
bracelets,  ruby  crosses,  emerald  ear-rings,  which  were  not  the 
gifts  of  her  husband,  had  found  their  way  to  her  jewel-cases ; 
but  as  Mr.  Cinqmars  was  exorbitantly  rich,  this  was  of  course 
a  fabrication.  Only  there  is  an  order  of  goddesses  somewhat 
insatiable  in  the  matter  of  tribute;  goddesses  who,  on  being 
suddenly  possessed  of  the  Koh-i-noor,  would  that  instant  lan- 
guish for  the  Star  of  the  South,  as  a  pendant  thereto. 

Upon  this  particular  afternoon  in  May  the  air  was  balmy, 
and  the  sun  unseasonably  warm,  for  it  is  only  the  fond 
believer  in  idyllic  poets  who  exjoects  genial  weather  in  May; 
and  the  grounds  of  the  Eancho  were  gay  with  visitors,  brightly- 
costumed  groups  scattered  here  and  thera  in  the  shade ;  a  per- 
petual crowd  hovering  about  the  footsteps  of  Mrs.  Cinqmars  as 
sht  moved  to  and  fro  among  her  guests,  so  delighted  to  see 
every  one;  a  cheerful  chatter  of  many  voices,  and  a  musical 
jingle  of  tea-spoons  mildly  suggestive  of  refreshment. 

Mrs.  Cinqmars  was  a  little  woman,  with  intensely-black  eyes 
tnd  long  black  hair — hair  which  she  wore  down  her  back,  after 
the  fashion  of  a  horse's  tail,  and  which  reached  ever  so  far 
below  her  waist — hair  which  she  delighted  to  tic  with  bright- 
coloured  ribbons.  She  was  a  woman  who  affected  brilliant 
colours,  and  as  she  flashed  here  and  there  amidst  the  greenery, 
had  something  the  air  of  a  gorgeous  paraquito  from  some  fax 
Bouthern  isle. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrimg,  167 

Her  hair  and  her  eyes  were  her  strong  points,  and  to  come 
within  the  range  of  those  tremendous  orbs  was  like  facing  a 
battery  of  Lancastrians.  They  dealt  ruin  across  the  open 
country,  bringing  down  their  quarry  at  terrific  distance.  To  be 
able  to  stand  the  blaze  of  Mrs.  (^inqmars'  eyes,  was  to  be  case« 
hardened,  tried  in  the  fire  of  half-a-dozen  London  seasons.  Fot 
the  rest,  she  was  hardly  to  be  called  a  pretty  woman.  Her 
complexion  was  sallow;  and  as  she  wished  to  have  the  freehold 
and  not  a  short  lease  of  whatever  beauty  she  possessed,  she  was 
wise  enough  to  refrain  from  the  famous  arts  of  our  modern 
Medea,  Madame  Rachel  Levison.  Her  small  hands  and  feet, 
coquettish  costumes,  brilliant  eyes,  and  luxuriant  hair,  she  con- 
Bidered  all-sufficient  for  the  subjugation  of  mankind. 

She  received  Mrs.  Chevenix  and  her  niece  with  eflFusion:  so 
kind  of  them  to  come,  and  so  on.  And  she  really  was  glad  to 
see  them.  They  belonged  to  a  class  which  she  was  peculiarly 
desirous  to  cultivate,  the  eminently  respectable — not  that  she 
for  her  own  part  liked  this  order  of  beings,  or  would  for  worlds 
have  had  her  parties  composed  of  snch  alone;  but  a  httle  leaven 
might  leaven  the  whole  lump,  and  Mrs.  Cinqmars  was  quite 
aware  that  the  mass  of  her  society  did  require  such  leavening. 
Not  that  Mrs.  Cinqmars  was  herself  in  any  manner  disreputable. 
She  had  never  been  accused  of  carrying  a  tiirtation  beyond  the 
hmits  which  society  has  pi*escribed  for  a  young  matron ;  she 
was  known  to  be  devoted  to  her  husband  and  her  husband's 
interests;  and  yet  the  friends  and  flatterers  she  gathered 
around  her  were  not  the  choicest  fruit  in  the  basket ;  they  were 
rather  those  ever-so-slightly-speckled  peaches  which  only  fetch 
a  secondary  price  in  the  market.  The  class  with  which  Mr. 
Cinqmars  shared  the  glories  of  his  wealth  and  state  was  that 
class  which  seems  by  some  natural  affinity  to  ally  itself  with 
the  wealthy  parvenu — second-rate  authors,  newspaper  men,  and 
painters,  fastish  noblemen,  military  men  with  a  passion  for 
amateur  theatricals,  and  so  on;  toute  la  boutique,  as  Mrs. 
Cinqmars  observed. 

Mr.  Cinqmars  had  a  two-hundred-ton  yacht  of  notorious 
speed  and  sailing  capacity,  which  assisted  him  in  the  cultivation 
of  youthful  scions  of  the  aristocracy,  whose  presence  imparted  a 
grace  to  the  dinner-parties  and  kettledrums  at  the  Rancho;  but 
it  happened,  unfortunately,  that  the  youthful  scious  were  for 
the  most  part  impecunious,  and  did  not  materially  advance 
Du  Chatelet's  interests.  It  was  not  often  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Cinqmars  were  so  fortunate  as  to  cultivate  such  an  acquaint- 
ance as  Lord  Paulyn,  and  the  friendship  of  that  wealthy 
nobleman  had  been  a  source  of  much  gratification  to  both 
husband  and  wife.  Reginald  Paulyn  liked  the  easy-going  style 
•f  thft  Rancho;    liked  to  feel  himself  a  god  in  that  peculiar 


168  Strangers  and  l^ilgrims. 

circle ;  liked  to  be  able  to  flirt  with  agreeable  young  womeu  who 
were  not  perpetually  beneath  the  piercing  eye  of  a  calculating 
parent  or  guardian,  to  flirt  a  little  even,  in  a  strictly  honour- 
able manner,  with  Mrs.  Cinqmars  herself;  to  play  billiards  till 
the  summer  stars  grew  pale,  or  to  gamble  in  moonlit  groves 
where  the  little  bells  on  the  be-wired  and  be-numbered  boards 
tinkled  merrily  under  the  silent  night.  Lord  Paulyn  liked  to 
enjoy  himself  without  pajang  any  tax  in  the  shape  of  ceremony, 
and  the  Rancho  offered  him  just  this  kind  of  enjoyment.  He, 
too,  had  his  yacht,  the  Pixy ;  so  there  was  sympathy  between 
him  and  the  adventurous  Du  Chatolet,  who  had  crossed  the 
Atlantic  in  a  half-decked  pinnace  of  thirty  tons,  and  discovered 
the  scource  of  the  Nile  for  his  own  amusement,  before  any  of 
the  more  distinguished  explorers  who  have  made  themselves 
known  to  fame,  according  to  his  own  account  of  his  various  and 
interesting  career. 

"  I  like  the  Rancho,  you  know,"  the  Viscount  would  remark 
to  his  friends,  with  a  condescending  air ;  "  it's  like  a  little  bit  of 
Hombourg  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames;  and  Cinqmars  isn't 
half  a  bad  fellow — a  little  loud  of  course,  you  know ;  and  so  is 
Mrs.  C. ;  and  one  needn't  believe  a  large  percentage  of  what 
either  of 'em  says.  But  I  rather  like  that  kind  of  thing;  one 
gets  surfeited  with  good  manners  in  the  season." 

To  these  happy  hunting-grounds,  the  Viscount  was  peculiarly 
desirous  to  introduce  Elizabeth.  It  was  all  very  well  calling 
three  or  four  times  a  week  in  Eaton-place,  and  whiling  away  a 
couple  of  hours  under  the  eye,  or  within  reach  of  the  ear,  of 
Mrs.  Chevenix;  but  the  lover's  soul  languished  for  a  closer 
communion  than  this,  for  tete-a-tett  rambles  under  the  forest- 
trees  of  Fulham ;  for  a  snug  little  corner  on  board  Mr.  Cinq- 
mars' barge,  when  she  gave  her  great  water-parties  up  the  river, 
between  Hampton  lock  and  Henley ;  for  waltzes  in  the  rustic 
drawing-room,  where  half-a-dozen  couples  were  wont  to  have 
the  floor  to  themselves  late  in  the  night  after  the  Cinqmars' 
dinners.  The  Viscount's  chances  of  meeting  his  beloved  iu 
eociety  were  not  numerous.  His  circle  was  not  Mrs.  Chevenix's 
circle,  and  it  annoyed  him  to  hear  of  dinners  and  balls  to  which 
Elizabeth  was  going,  the  dinners  of  wealthy  professional  men  or 
commercial  magnates,  just  outside  the  boundary  of  his  patrician 
world.  The  Rancho  ofiered  an  open  field  for  their  frequent 
meeting,  and  it  was  for  this  reason  that  the  Viscount  de- 
sired to  bring  about  an  alhance  between  Elizabeth  and 
Mrs.  Cinqmars. 

Miss  Luttrell  accepted  the  lady's  enthusiastic  welcome  with 
her  usual  coolness,  and  allowed  her  aunt  to  descant  alone  upon 
the  charms  of  the  Rancho  grounds,  and  her  astonishment 
at  finding  so  large  a  domain  on  the  very  edge  of  Lendon.    Lord 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  169 

Paulyn  had  arrived  before  them,  and  was  ready  to  carry  oflP 

ElizaVjeth  at  once  to  explore  the  beauties  of  the  place. 

"  I  know  you're  fond  of  old  trees,"  he  said,  "  and  you  must 
see  Mrs.  Citiqmars'  cedars." 

Flora  Cinqmars  looked  after  the  two  with  an  air  of  enlighten- 
ment. So  Lord  Paulyn  was  sweet  upon  that  handsome  Devon- 
shire girl  people  talked  so  much  about.  The  discovery  was  not 
an  agreeable  one.  Mrs.  Cinqmars  liked  her  friends  best  when 
their  affections  were  disengaged ;  and  no  doubt,  if  Lord  Paulyn 
aiarried,  there  would  be  an  end  of  an  acquaintance  which  had 
been  very  useful  to  her.  She  was  not,  however,  an  ill-natured 
person,  so  she  gave  her  graceful  shoulders  a  careless  little  shrug, 
and  resigned  herself  to  the  inevitable. 

"  I  suppose  I  had  better  be  civil  to  the  girl,"  she  thought ; 
"  and  if  he  cuts  us  after  he  is  married,  I  can't  help  it.  But 
perhaps  he'll  hardly  do  that  if  he  marries  a  parson's  daughter, 
though  he  might  if  he  took  up  with  some  heavy  swell,  who'd  run 
her  pen  through  the  list  of  his  bachelor  acquaintances,  and  put 
her  veto  on  all  the  nicest  peoj^le." 

_  Elizabeth  found  Mrs.  Cinqmars'  afternoon  by  no  means 
disagreeable.  There  were  plenty  of  pleasant  people  and  well- 
dressed  people,  a  few  eccentric  toilets,  'pour  se  divertir,  a  good 
many  people  with  a  certain  kind  of  literary  or  artistic  distinc- 
tion, a  mere  effervescence  of  the  hour  perhaps, — a  temporary 
sparkle,  which  would  leave  them  as  flat  as  yesterday's  un- 
finished bottles  of  champagne  by  next  season,  but  which  for  the 
moment  made  them  worth  seeing.  Then  there  were  the  grounds, 
pink  and  white  horse-chestnuts  in  their  Whitsuntide  glory,  and 
the  river  running  swiftly  downward  under  the  westering  sun. 

Lord  Paulyn  tried  his  uttermost  to  keep  Elizabeth  to  himself; 
to  beguile  her  into  lonely  walks  where  he  could  pour  forth  the 
emotions  of  his  soul,  which  did  not  express  themselves  in  a  par- 
ticularly poetical  manner  at  the  best  of  times;  but  Elizabeth 
was  anxious  to  see  the  celebrities,  and  a  good  many  people  were 
anxious  to  see  her,  as  a  celebrity  in  her  own  peculiar  line,  by 
reason  of  her  beauty ;  so  Lord  Paulyn  was  thwarted  in  this 
desire,  and  was  fain  to  be  content  with  keeping  his  place  at  her 
side,  whether  she  sat  or  walked,  against  all  comers. 

"  I  never  do  seem  able  to  get  five  minutes'  quiet  talk  with 
you,"  he  said  at  last,  almost  savagely,  when  Mrs.  Chevenix  had 
joined  them,  and  was  talking  of  going  back  to  town. 

"  I  really  cannot  imagine  what  3'ou  can  have  to  say  that 
can't  quite  as  well  be  said  in  a  crowd  as  in  solitude,"  answered 
Elizabeth  coldly. 

She  gave  him  these  little  checks  occasionally,  not  quite  for- 
getting that  she  was  the  plighted  wife  of  another  man — a  fact 
which  she  had  begged  her  aunt  to  tell  Lord  Paulyn,  and  which 


170  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

she  fondly  supposed  had  been  imparted  to  him.  Secure  in  the 
idea  that  the  Viscount  had  been  made  acquainted  with  her 
position,  or  at  any  rate  serenely  indifferent  to  that  gentleman's 
feelings,  she  enjoyed  her  new  lite,  and  permitted  his  attentions 
with  a  charming  carelessness,  as  if  he  had  been  of  little  more 
account  than  an  affectionate  Skye  terrier.  It  was  one  of  the 
prerogatives  of  her  beauty  to  be  admired,  and  she  was  worldly- 
wise  enough  to  know  that  her  position  in  her  aunt's  circle  was 
wondrously  enhanced  by  Lord  Paulyn's  very  evident  subjuga- 
tion. He  had  as  yet  neither  committed  himself,  nor  alarmed 
her  by  any  direct  avowal ;  she  had  taken  care  to  keep  him  so 
completely  at  bay  as  to  prevent  such  a  crisis. 

And  even  in  the  midst  of  all  these  pleasures  and  excitements,  in 
this  atmosphere  of  adulation,  her  heart  did  yearn  for  the  lover 
from  whom  she  was  parted ;  for  the  light  of  those  dark  steadfast 
eyes ;  the  grasp  of  that  strong  hand,  whose  touch  thrilled  her 
soul ;  for  the  sound  of  that  earnest  voice,  whose  commonest 
word  was  sweeter  than  all  other  utterances  upon  this  earth. 
She  did  think  of  him ;  yes,  in  the  very  press  and  hurry  of  her 
new  life,  and  still  more  deeply  in  every  chance  moment  of  repose 
— even  to-day  under  those  wide- spreading  chestnuts,  beside  that 
sunlit  river.  How  doubly,  trebly,  unutterably  sweet  this  life 
would  have  been  could  she  but  have  shared  it  with  him ! 

'*  If  some  good  fairy  would  change  the  positions  of  these  two 
men,"  she  thought  childishly,  "  and  make  Malcolm  Lord  Paulyn, 
what  a  ha])})y  creature  I  should  be !" 

And  then  she  was  angry  with  herself  for  thinking  so  base  a 
thought.  Had  she  not  won  much  more  than  the  world  in  win- 
ning him  ? 

*'  He  knows  that  I  am  not  good,  that  I  am  just  the  very  last 
of  women  he  ought  to  have  chosen,  and  yet  he  loves  me.  I  am 
proud  to  think  of  that.  I  should  have  hardly  valued  his  love 
if  he  had  only  chosen  me  because  I  was  good  and  proper,  and  a 
suitable  person  for  his  wife,"  she  argued  with  herself. 

Mrs.  Cinqmars  entreated  her  new  friends  to  stay  to  dinner. 
There  were  a  great  many  people  going  to  stay,  really  pleasant 
people.  Mr.  Burjoyce  the  fashionable  novelist,  and  Mr.  Macduff 
the  Scotch  landscape  painter,  whose  Ben  Lomond  was  one  of 
the  pictures  of  the  year ;  and  Lord  Paulyn  had  promised  to 
stay  if  Mrs.  Chevenix  and  Miss  Luttrell  would  stay,  whereby  it 
would  ^^e  peculiarly  cruel  of  them  to  depart.  But  Mrs.  Chevenix 
was  inflexible ;  she  was  not  going  to  make  herself  cheap  in 
society  which  she  felt  to  be  second-rate,  however  cool  the  cham- 
pagne cup,  however  soft  the  sward  on  which  she  trod. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  she  said ;  "  but  it  is  quite  impossible. 
We  have  engagements  for  this  evening." 

Lord  Paulyn  hereupon  began  to  talk  of  the  Derby, 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  171 

**  I  want  to  get  up  a  party,  Mrs.  Cinqmars,"  he  said,  "  or  you 
shall  get  it  up  if  you  like,  as  you're  a  top-sawyer  at  that  kind 
of  thing.  Suppose  I  lend  you  my  drag,  and  you  can  ask  Mrs. 
Chevenix,  and  Miss  Luttrell,  and  myself,  and  a  few  other  nice 
people;  and  Cinqmars  and  I  will  tool  the  team,  eh?  wouldn't 
that  be  rather  jolly  ?  " 

Mrs.  Cinqnaars  opined  that  it  would  be  charming — if  dear 
Mrs.  Chevenix  would  go. 

Dear  Mrs.  Chevenix  beheld  a  prospect  of  being  choked  with 
dust,  and  blinded  by  a  blazing  sun,  or  chilled  to  the  marrow 
by  an  east  wind,  and  was  not  elated.  And  after  all  it  might  be 
almost  wiser  to  let  EHzabeth  go  to  the  races  with  this  rather 
fast  Mrs.  Cinqmars,  without  the  restraint  of  any  sterner 
chaperon.     It  might  bring  matters  to  a  crisis. 

•'  He  can't  propose  to  her  if  I'm  always  at  her  elbow,"  thought 
the  sagacious  matron.  "  I  am  hardly  equal  to  the  fatigue  of  a 
Derby-day,"  she  said  ;  "but  if  Mrs.  Cinqmars  would  not  think 
it  too  much  trouble  to  take  care  of  Elizabeth " 

Mrs.  Cinqmars  protested  that  she  would  be  charmed  with 
such  a  charge.  Elizabeth's  eyes  sparkled :  a  race-course  was 
still  an  unknown  pleasure,  one  of  the  many  mysteries  of  that 
brilliant  world  which  she  desired  to  know  by  heart  before  she 
bade  her  long  good-bye  to  it. 

So,  after  a  little  discussion,  it  was  settled  that  Miss  Luttrell 
was  to  go  to  Epsom  in  the  drag  with  Mrs.  Cinqmars. 

"  But  I  must  see  you  between  this  and  to-morrow  week,"  ex- 
claimed that  lady,  who,  perceiving  in  which  quarter  the  wind 
lay,  was  resolved  to  ake  the  best  of  the  situation,  and  estab- 
lish herself  in  the  good  graces  of  the  future  Viscountess.  "  I 
have  a  carpet  dance  on  Friday  evening ;  you  really  must  come 
to  me,  Mrs.  Chevenix.  Now  pray  don't  say  you  are  full  of  en- 
gagements for  Friday  night." 

"  We  are  to  dine  in  the  Boltons,"  hesitated  Mrs.  Chevenix ; 
"  we  might  possibly " 

"  Drive  on  here  afterwards,"  cried  Mrs.  Cinqmars ;  "  of  course 
you  could.  Remember  you  are  to  be  with  me  on  Friday,  Lord 
Paulyn." 

"  I  shall  certainly  come,  if " 

"  If  Miss  Luttrell  comes.  It's  really  too  bad  of  you  to  make 
me  feel  how  little  weight  my  influence  has.  Good-bye,  if  you 
positively  won't  stay  to  dinner.  I  must  go  and  say  good-bye  to 
those  blue-and-white  young  ladies  yonder." 

And  with  a  sweeping  continental  curtsey,  Mrs.  Cinqmars 
flitted  away  in  her  befnlleJ-muslin  draperies,  and  wonderful 
cherry-coloured  satin  petticoat  with  its  organ-pi  |)e  flutings,  and 
tiying  ebon  tresses — a  figure  out  of  a  fashion  plate. 

"  I've  told  Captain  Callender  to  drive  the  drae  home,"  said 


172  Strangets  and  jPilgrints. 

the  Viscount ,  "  I  thought  perhaps  you'd  he  charitable  euougli 
to  give  me  a  seat  in  your  brougham,  Mrs.  Chevenix. 

The  third  seat  in  Mrs.  Chevenix's  brougham  was  entirely  at 
his  disposal,  not  a  very  roomy  seat ;  he  was  carried  back  to 
town  half  smothered  in  silk  and  muslin,  but  very  well  contented 
with  his  position  nevertheless. 

"  Are  you  going  to  some  very  tremendous  set-out  this  even- 
ing P  "  asked  Lord  Paulyn  as  they  drove  homewards. 

"  We  are  not  going  out  at  all,  only  I  didn't  feel  inclined  to 
accept  Mrs.  Cinqmars'  invitation,  so  I  had  recourse  to  a  poHte 
fiction,"  answered  Mrs.  Chevenix. 

"And  I  am  particularly  engaged  to  finish  that  novel  in  whica 
you  interrupted  me  so  ruthlessly  this  morning,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"  But  the  novel  need  not  jirevent  your  dining  with  us  this  even* 
ing,  if  you  have  no  better  engagement,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Chevenix. 

"  If  I  have  no  better  engagement!  As  if  I  could  have  a  better 
engagement." 

"  You  might  have  a  better  dinner,  at  any  rate.  I  can  only 
promise  you  our  everyday  fare,"  answered  the  matron,  secure  in 
the  possession  of  a  good  cook. 

She  had  made  a  mental  review  of  her  dinner  before  hazarding 
the  invitation;  spring  soup,  a  salmon  trout,  an  infantine 
shoulder  of  lamb,  a  sweetbread,  a  gooseberry  tart,  and  a  par- 
mesan  omelette.  He  would  hardly  get  a  better  dinner  at  hia 
club;  and  had  doubtless  seen  many  a  worse  at  Ashcombe. 

"I  should  like  to  come  of  all  things,"  said  the  Viscount. 
"And  if  you'd  like  to  hear  Patti  this  evening,  I'll  send  my  man 
to  Mitchell's  for  a  box  while  we  dine,"  he  added  to  Elizabeth. 

To  that  young  lady  the  Italian  Opera-house  was  still  a  scene 
of  enchantment. 

"  I  cannot  hear  Patti  too  often,"  she  said ;  "  I  should  like  to 
carry  away  the  memory  of  her  voice  when  I  turn  my  back  upon 
the  world." 

"Turn  your  back  upon  the  world !"  echoed  Lord  Paulyn. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  You  are  not  thinking  of  going 
into  a  convent,  are  you  ?  " 

"  She  is  thinking  of  nothing  so  fooHsh,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix, 
hastily. 

"  No ;  but  the  world  and  I  will  part  company  when  I  go  back 
to  Devonshire." 

"  O,  but  you're  not  going  back  in  a  hurry.  You  must  stop 
for  Goodwood,  you  know.  She  must  stopfer  Goodwood,  mustn't 
she,  Mrs.  Chevenix  ?  " 

"  I  should  certainly  hke  to  take  her  down  to  Brighton  for  the 
Goodwood  week." 

"  Yes,  and  I  would  have  the  drag  down,  and  drive  you  back« 
wards  and  forwards." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  173 

"  My  5ionday  must  come  to  an  end  before  July,"  said  Eliza* 
betli ;  and  then  turning  to  her  aunt  she  said  almost  sternly, 
•'  You  know,  aunt,  there  is  a  reason  for  my  going  back  soon." 

"  I  know  of  no  reason  but  your  own  whims  and  follies,"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Chevenix  impatiently;  "  and  I  know  that  I  made 
all  my  arrangements  for  taking  you  back  to  Devonshire  early  iu 
the  autumn,  and  not  before  that  time." 

EHzabeth's  smooth  young  brow  darkened  a  little,  and  she  was 
silent  for  the  rest  of  the  drive ;  but  this  was  not  the  first  indica- 
tion of  a  temper  of  her  own  with  which  the  damsel  had  favoured 
Lord  Paulyn,  and  it  by  no  means  disenchanted  him.  Indeed,  by 
b.  strange  perversity,  he  liked  her  all  the  better  for  such  evidencea 
of  high  spirit. 

"  I  shall  find  out  the  way  to  break  her  in  when  once  she  be- 
longs to  me,"  he  thought  coolly. 

The  little  dinner  in  Eaton -place- south  went  off  very  gaily. 
Elizabeth  had  recovered  her  serenity,  and  was  elated  by  the  idea 
of  a  night  with  Patti  and  Mozart.  She  went  to  the  piano  and 
sang  some  of  the  airs  from  Don  Giovanni  while  they  were  wait- 
ing for  dinner ;  her  fresh  young  mezzo-soprano  sounding  ricti 
and  full  as  the  voices  of  the  thrushes  and  blackbirds  in  the 
grounds  of  the  Kancho.  She  was  full  of  talk  during  dinner ; 
criticised  Mrs.  Cinqmars  and  the  Rancho  with  a  little  dash  of 
cynicism ;  was  eager  for  information  upon  the  probabilities  of 
the  Derby,  and  ready  to  accept  any  bets  which  Lord  Paulyn 
proposed  to  her ;  and  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  very 
existence  of  such  a  place  as  Hawleigh. 

Yet  after  the  opera  that  night  there  was  a  little  recrimination 
between  the  aunt  and  the  niece ;  there  had  been  no  time  for  it 
before. 

"  I  hope  you  have  enjoyed  your  day  and  evening,  Lizzie," 
said  Mrs.  Chevenix  as  the  girl  flung  off  her  cloak,  and  seated 
herself  upon  a  sofa  in  her  aunt's  dressing-room,  with  a  weary 
air.  "  I'm  sure  you  have  had  attention  and  adulation  enough 
this  day  to  satisfy  the  most  exacting  young  woman." 

"  I  hardly  know  what  you  understand  by  attention  and  adula- 
tion. If  I  have  had  anything  of  the  kind,  it  has  all  been  from 
one  person.  Lord  Paulyn  has  not  allowed  me  to  say  half-a- 
dozen  words  to  any  one  but  himself;  and  as  his  ideas  are  rather 
limited,  it  has  been  extremely  monotonous." 

"  I  should  have  supposeii  Lord  Paulyn's  attentions  would 
have  been  sufficient  for  any  reasonable  young  woman." 

*'  Perhaps.  If  she  happened  to  be  disengaged,  and  wished  to 
secure  him  for  her  husband.  Not  otherwise.  And  that  reminds 
me  of  something  that  I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  auntie;  you  must 
remember  my  asking  you  to  tell  Lord  Paulyn  of  my  engagement 
to  Mr.  Forde." 


174  Strangers  and  Pilgrimi. 

**  Yes,  I  remember  sometliing  of  tlie  kind  " 

"But  you  have  not  told  him." 

"No,  Elizabeth,  I  have  not,"  replied  the  matron,  bney  taking 
off  the  various  bracelets  in  which  she  was  wont  to  fetter  herself 
as  heavily  as  an  apprehended  housebreaker,  and  with  her  eyes 
bent  upon  her  v/ork.  "  There  are  limits  even  to  my  forbearance  ; 
and  that  I  should  introduce  yon  to  society,  to  my  friends,  with 
that  wretched  engagement  stamped  upon  you — labelled,  as  it 
were,  like  one  of  the  pictures  in  the  Academy — is  something 
more  than  I  could  brooli.  I  have  not  told  Lord  Paulyn,  and  I  tell 
you  frankly  that  I  shall  not  waste  my  breath  in  announcing  to 
any  one  an  engagement  which  I  do  not  believe  will  ever  be  ful- 
filled." 

"  What!  "  cried  Elizabeth,  starting  from  her  half-recumbent 
attitude,  and  standing  tall  and  straight  before  the  audacious 
speaker.  "  What !  Do  you  think  that  I  would  jilt  him,  that 
after  having  pined  and  hungered  for  his  love  I  would  wantonly 
fling  it  away  ?  Yes,  I  will  speak  the  truth,  however  you  may 
ridicule  or  despise  me.  I  loved  him  with  all  my  heart  and  soul 
for  a  year  before  he  told  me  that  my  love  was  not  all  wasted 
anguish.  I  was  breaking  my  heart  when  he  came  to  my  rescue, 
and  translated  me  from  the  lowest  depths  of  despondency  to  a 
heaven  of  delight.  Do  you  think  that  after  I  have  suffered  so 
much  for  his  sake  I  would  trifle  with  the  treasure  I  have  won  ?  " 

"Please  don't  stand  looking  at  me  like  Miss  Bateman  in 
Leah"  said  aunt  Chevenix  with  an  ease  of  manner  which  was 
half-assumed.  "  I  think  you  are  the  most  foolish  girl  it  was  ever 
my  misfortune  to  be  connected  with,  and  I  freely  admit  that  it 
is  hardly  safe  to  speculate  upon  the  conduct  of  such  an  irrational 
being.  But  I  will  nevertheless  venture  to  prophesy  that  you  will 
not  marry  your  curate,  and  that  you  will  marry  some  one  a  great 
deal  better  worth  having." 

"  I  will  never  see  Lord  Paulyn  again.  I  will  go  back  to  Haw- 
leigh  to-morrow,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"  Do  just  as  y^ou  please,"  rephed  Mrs.  Chevenix  coolly,  know- 
ing that  opposition  would  only  inflame  the  damsel's  pride. 

*'  Or,  at  any  rate,  I  shall  tell  Lord  Paulyn  of  my  engagement." 

"  Do,  my  dear.  But  as  he  has  never  spoken  of  his  regard  for 
you,  the  information  may  appear  somewhat  gratuitous." 

Elizabeth  stood  before  her  silent,  lost  in  thought. 

To  turn  and  Hy  would  be  the  wisest,  safest  course. 

She  felt  that  her  position  was  a  false  one ;  dangerous  even, 
with  some  small  danger ;  that  Lord  Paulyn's  attentions,  com- 
monplace as  they  might  be,  were  attentions  she,  Malcolm's 
plighted  wife,  had  no  right  to  receive.  She  knew  that  all  these 
garish  pleasures  and  dissipations  which  occupied  her  mind  from 
morning  till  night  were  out  of  harmony  with  the  life  she  had 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  175 

chosen ;  the  fair  calm  future  which  she  dreamed  o\  »ometimes, 
after  falling  asleep  worn  out  by  the  day's  frivolous  labours.  But 
to  go  back  suddenly,  after  it  had  been  arranged  that  she  should 
remain  with  her  aunt  at  least  a  month  longer,  was  not  easy. 
There  would  be  such  wonderment  on  the  part  of  her  sisters,  so 
many  questions  to  answer.  Even  Malcolm  himself  would  be 
naturally  surprised  by  her  impetuosity,  for  in  her  very  last  letter 
Bhe  had  carefully  explained  to  him  the  necessity  for  her  visit 
being  extended  until  the  second  week  in  June. 

No,  it  was  not  easy  to  return  to  the  shelter  of  Hawleigh 
Vicarage;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  her  unsatisfied 
curiosity  about  the  Derby,  that  one  peculiar  pleasure  of  a  great 
race  which  had  been  described  to  her  as  beyond  all  other  plea- 
sures. Better  to  drain  the  cup  to  satiety,  so  that  there  might 
be  no  after  longings.  She  would  take  care  to  give  the  Viscount 
no  encouragement  during  the  remainder  of  her  brief  career ;  she 
would  snub  him  ruthlessly,  even  though  he  were  a  being  some- 
yrhat  difficult  to  snub.  So  she  resolved  to  stay,  and  received  hei 
aunt's  pacific  advances  graciously,  and  went  to  bed  and  dreamt 
of  the  Commendatore;  and  the  statue  that  stalked  in  time  to 
that  awful  music — music  which  is  the  very  essence  of  all  things 
spectral — bore  the  face  of  Malcolm  Forde. 


CHAPTEE  III. 

•*  Bianca's  heart  was  coldly  frosted  o'er 

With  snows  unmelting— an  eternal  sLeet ; 

But  his  was  red  within  him,  like  the  core 
Of  old  Vesuvius,  with  perpetual  heat; 

An<^  oft  he  long'd  internally  to  pour 

His  flames  and  glowing  lava  at  her  feet ; 

But  when  his  burnings  he  began  to  spout, 

She  stopp'd  his  mouth — and  put  the  crater  out." 

The  Derby-day  was  over ;  an  exceptionally  brilliant  Derby,  mn 
nnder  a  summer-like  sky ;  roads  gloriously  dusty ;  western 
breezes  blowing ;  the  favourite,  a  famous  French  horse,  triumph- 
ant ;  everybody,  except  perhaps  the  book-men,  and  sundry  other 
mistaken  speculators,  elated ;  Mrs.  Cinqmars  seeing  her  way  to 
H  twelvemonth's  supply  of  Piver  and  Jouvin  ;  Elizabeth  also  a 
considerable  winner  of  the  same  species  of  spoil. 

The  Viscount  was  not  altogether  delighted  by  the  great  event 
of  the  day.  He  had  withdrawn  his  own  entries  two  or  three 
months  ago,  but  had  backed  a  Yorkshire  horse,  from  Whitehall, 
somewhat  heavily,  sceptical  as  to  the  merits  of  the  Frenchman. 


176  Stranger*  and  Pilgrims. 

"  It's  all  very  we?!  while  he's  among  French  horses,"  he  had 
said,  "  winning  your  Grand  Prix,  and  that  kind  of  thing ;  but 
let  him  come  over  here  and  lick  a  field  of  geuuine  English  blood 
and  sinew,  if  he  can." 

The  Frenchman  had  accepted  the  challenge,  and  had  left  the 
pricle  and  glory  of  many  a  British  stable  in  the  ruck  behind  his 
flying  lieels, 

"  Couldn't  have  done  it  if  there  wasn't  English  blood  in  him," 
said  the  Viscount  grimly,  as  he  pushed  his  way  within  the 
sacred  precincts  to  see  the  jockey  weighed.  "  I  wish  I'd  had 
some  money  on  him." 

Instead  of  the  pleasing  idea  of  that  potful  of  money  which 
he  might  have  secured  by  backing  the  Frenchman,  Lord  Paulya 
had  a  cargo  of  gloves  to  provide  for  the  fair  speculators — whose 
eager  championship  of  the  stranger  he  had  smiled  at  somewhat 
scornfully  half-an-hour  ago — to  say  nothing  of  far  heavier  losses 
which  only  such  estates  as  the  Paulyn  domains   could  bear 


I  shall  pull  up  on  Ascot,"  he  thought,  and  was  not  sorry  to 
resign  the  reins  to  Mr.  Cinqmars  during  the  homeward  journey, 
while  he  abandoned  his  powerful  mind  to  a  close  calculation  of 
his  chances  for  the  next  great  meeting.  He  was  a  man  with 
whom  the  turf  was  a  serious  business;  a  man  who  went  a8 
carefully  into  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  horse-racing,  as  a  great 
financier  into  the  science  of  the  stock-exchange;  and  he  had 
hitherto  contrived  to  make  his  winnings  cover  all  his  stable 
expenses,  and  even  at  times  leave  a  handsome  margin  beyond 
them.  Above  all  things  he  hated  losing,  and  his  meditative 
brow,  as  he  sat  beside  Mr.  Cinqmars,  bore  a  family  resemblance 
to  the  countenance  of  the  astute  dowager  when  she  gave 
herself  up  to  the  study  of  her  private  ledger. 

Even  Elizabeth's  fresh  young  voice  running  gaily  on  just  be-- 
hind  him  did  not  ai»ouse  him  from  his  moody  abstraction.  He 
had  been  all  devotion  during  the  drive  to  Epsom,  and  Miss  Lut- 
trell's  coldness  and  incivility,  which  of  late  had  been  marked, 
had  not  been  sufficient  to  repel  or  discourage  him.  What  did  he 
care  whether  she  were  civil  or  uncivil  ?  iJe  rather  liked  those 
chilling  airs,  and  angry  flashes  from  brilliant  eyes.  They  gave 
a  charm  and  piquancy  to  her  society  which  he  had  never  found 
in  the  insipid  amiability  of  other  women.  What  did  it  matter 
how  she  flouted  him  ?  He  meant  to  marry  her,  and  she  of 
course  meant  to  marry  him.  It  was  not  to  be  sup[)osed  that  any 
woman  in  hor  right  mind  would  refuse  such  an  off'er.  And  in 
the  mean  while  these  coldnesses,  and  little  bitter  speeches,  and 
disdainful  looks  were  the  merest  coquetries — a  Benedick-and- 
Beatrioe  or  Katherine-and-Petruchio  kind  of  business.  See  how 
uncivil  that  fair  shrew  was  at  the  outset,  and  how  much  she 


Strnngerg  and  Pilgrims.  177 

bore  from  her  newly-wedded  master  afterwards.  Lord  Paulyu 
smiled  to  himself  as  he  thought  of  Petruchio.  "  I've  got  a  trifle 
of  that  soi-t  of  stuff  in  me,"  he  said  to  himself  complacently. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Lord  Paalyn  ?  "  asked  Elizabeth  of 
Mrs.  Cinqmars,  when  they  were  changing  horses  at  Mitcham, 
and  the  Viscount's  gloom  became,  for  the  first  time,  obvious  to 
ner.  She  had  been  too  busy  to  notice  him  until  that  moment, 
agreeably  employed  in  discussing  the  day's  racing  with  a  couple 
of  cavalry  officers,  particular  friends  of  Mr.  Cinqmars,  who  were 
delighted  with  the  privilege  of  instructing  her  in  the  mysteries 
of  the  turf.  She  had  a  way  of  being  intensely  interested  in 
whatever  engaged  her  attention  for  the  moment,  and  was  as 
eager  to  hear  about  favourites  and  jockeys  as  if  she  had  been 
the  daughter  of  some  Yorkshire  squire,  almost  cradled  in  a  racing 
stable,  and  swaddled  in  a  horse-cloth. 

"  I'm  afraid  he  has  been  losing  money,"  said  Mrs.  Cinqmars, 
as  the  Viscount  descended  to  inspect  his  horses  and  refresh  him- 
self with  brandy-and-soda.  "  He  ought  to  have  backed  the 
foreigner.     He  does  look  rather  glum,  doesn't  he  ?  " 

"  Does  he  mind  losing  a  little  money  ?  "  exclaimed  Elizabeth 
incredulously. 

"  I  don't  think  there  are  many  people  who  like  it,"  answered 
Mrs.  Cinqmars,  laughing. 

"  But  he  is  so  enormously  rich,  I  should  have  thought  he  could 
hardly  care  about  it.  I  know  that  Lady  Paulyn,  his  mother,  ia 
very  fond  of  money;  but  for  a  young  man  to  care — I  should  have 
thought  it  impossible." 

"  Very  low,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Major  Bolding,  one  of  her  instruc- 
tors in  the  science  of  racing;  "  but  rather  a  common  weakness. 
So  very  human.    Only  it's  bad  form  to  show  it,  as  Paulyn  does." 

"  It's  only  rich  people  who  have  a  genuine  affection  for 
money,"  reniarked  Mrs.  Cinqmars ;  "  a  poor  man  never  keeps  a 
sovereign  long  enough  to  become  attached  to  it." 

The  examination  of  his  team  did  not  tend  to  improve  the 
Viscount's  temper.  They  had  sustained  various  intinitesima' 
injuries  in  the  journey  to  and  from  the  course,  so  he  refreshed 
himself  by  swearing  a  little  in  a  subdued  manner  at  his  grooms, 
who  had  nothing  to  do  with  these  damages,  and  then  consumed 
his  brandy-and-soda  in  a  sullen  silence,  only  replying  to  Mr, 
Cinqmars'  lively  remarks  by  reluctant  monosyllables. 

"  Can't  you  let  a  fellow  alone  when  you  see  he's  thinking  ?  " 
he  exclaimed  at  last. 

"  I  wouldn't  think  too  much  if  I  were  you,  Paulyn,"  said  Mr. 
Cimqmars,  in  his  genial,  happy-go-lucky  manner  ;  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve you've  the  kind  of  brain  that  can  stand  it.  I've  made  a 
])oint  of  never  thinking  since  I  wa3  five-and-twenty.  I  go_  up 
to  the  City  and  do  my  work  in  a  couple  of  hours  with  pen,  ink, 


178  Strangert  and  Pilgrims, 

and  paper ;  all  my  figures  before  me  in  black-and- white,  not 
dancing  about  my  brain  from  morning  tiU  night,  and  from  night 
till  morning,  as  some  men  let  them  dance.  When  I've  settled 
everything  at  my  desk,  I  give  my  junior  partner  his  orders.  And 
before  I've  taken  my  hat  off  the  peg  to  leave  the  office,  I've 
emptied  my  brain  of  all  business  ideas  and  perplexities  as  clean 
as  if  I'd  taken  a  broom  and  swept  it." 

"  All  very  wellwbile  you're  making  money,"  said  the  Viscount. 
"  but  you  couldn't  do  that  if  you  were  losing." 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  there  are  men  who  can't  make  money 
without  wearing  their  brains  out  with  perpetual  mental  arith- 
metic, men  who  carry  the  last  two  pages  of  their  banking-book 
pasted  upon  the  inside  of  their  heads,  and  are  always  going 
over  the  figures.  Those  are  the  men  who  go  off  their  nuts  by 
the  time  they're  worth  a  million  or  so,  and  cut  their  throats  for 
fear  of  dying  in  a  workhouse.  Come,  I  say,  Paulyn,  I  know 
you're  savage  with  yourself  for  not  backing  the  foreigner,  but 
you  can  put  your  money  on  liim  for  the  Leger,  and  come  home 
that  way." 

"Very  likely,  when  there's  five  to  four  on  him!"  cried  the 
Viscount  contemptuously.  Then,  brightening  a  little,  he  in- 
quired what  was  to  be  the  order  of  things  that  night  a,t  the 
Eancho. 

"  We've  a  lot  of  people  coming  to  dinner  at  nine,  or  so,  and  I 
suppose  my  wife  means  a  dance  afterwards." 

"  Like  Cremorne,"  said  Lord  Paulyn.  "  Mind  your  wife  makes 
Miss  Luttrell  stay." 

"  0,  of  course ;  we  couldn't  afford  to  lose  the  star  of  the 
evening.  A  fine  girl,  isn't  she  ?"  added  Mr.  Cinqmars,  glancing 
critically  upwards  at  the  figure  in  the  front  seat  of  the  drag. 

"A  fine  girl!"  echoed  the  Viscount  contemptuously;  "  she's 
the  handsomest  woman  I  ever  set  eyes  on,  bar  none." 

Lord  Paulyn  improved  considerably  after  this,  and  when  he 
went  back  to  the  box-seat  took  care  that  Major  Bolding  had 
no  farther  opportunity  of  demonstrating  his  familiarity  with 
the  arcana  of  the  turf.  He  engaged  the  whole  of  Elizabeth's 
attention,  and  was  not  to  be  rebuffed  by  her  coldness,  and  took 
u])on  himself  the  manner  of  an  acknowledged  lover  ;  a  manner 
which  was  not  a  httle  embarrassing  to  the  plighted  wife  of 
Malcolm  Forde. 

"  I  must  make  an  end  of  it  as  soon  as  possible,"  she  thought. 
"I  don't  know  that  to-day's  amusement  has  been  worth  the 
penalty  I  have  to  pay  for  it," 

The  drag  was  crost>ing  Clapham-common,  an  admiring  crowd 
gaaing  upward  at  the  patrician  vehicle  as  it  towered  above 
wagonettes,  barouches,  landaus,  hansoms,  and  costermongers' 
trucks,  wh'in  Rlizabeth  gave  a  little  start  of  surprise  at  recog- 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  179 

nising  a  face  that  belonged  to  Hawleigh.  It  was  only  the 
rubicund  visage  of  a  Hawleigh  farmer,  a  man  who  had  a  family- 
pew  at  St.  Clement's,  and  who  dutifully  attended  the  two  ser- 
vices every  Sunday,  with  an  apple-cheeked  wife  and  a  brood  of 
children.  He  was  one  of  a  very  hilarious  party  in  a  wagonette, 
a  party  of  stout  middle-aged  persons  of  the  publican  order,  who 
were  smoking  veheuiently,  and  had  wooden  dolls  stuck  in  their 
hatbands.  She  saw  him  look  up  and  recognise  her  with  inef- 
fable surprise,  and  immediately  communicate  the  fact  of  her 
presence  to  his  companions,  whereat  there  was  a  general  up- 
ward gaze  of  admiring  eyes,  more  or  less  bedimmed  by  dubious 
champagne. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Lord  Paulyn,  perceiving  that 
slight  movement  of  surprise. 

"  Nothing.  I  saw  a  person  I  know  in  a  wagonette ;  only 
Mr.  Treeby,  a  farmer  who  goes  to  papa's  church ;  but  I  was 
surprised  at  seeing  him  here." 

"  Not  very  astonishing ;  the  Derby  is  a  grand  festival  for 
provincials ;  and  we  are  such  an  unenlightened  set  in  the  West, 
we  have  no  great  races.  For  a  Yorkshireman,  now,  there  is 
nothing  to  see  in  the  South.  His  own  race-courses  are  as  fine  as 
anything  we  can  show  him  hei'e." 

Elizabeth  was  silent.  She  was  thinking  how  Mr.  Treby  would 
go  back  and  tell  the  little  world  of  Hawleigh  how  he  had  seen 
her  perched  high  up  on  a  gaudy  yellow-bodied  coach,  one  of  two 
women  among  a  party  of  a  dozen  men,  dominating  that  noisy  dis- 
sipated-looking crowd,  with  a  pink-lined  parasol  between  her  and 
the  low  sunlight ;  and  she  was  thinking  that  the  picture  would 
hardly  seem  a  pleasing  vision  to  the  eyes  of  Malcolm  Forde. 
She  had  meant  of  course  to  tell  him  of  her  day  at  Epsom,  but 
then  the  same  things  might  seem  very  different  described  by 
herself  and  by  Mr.  Treby.  She  tried  to  take  comfort  from  the 
thought  that,  after  all,  Mr.  Treby  might  say  very  Httle  about  the 
encounter,  and  that  the  little  he  did  say  might  not  happen  to 
reach  Malcolm's  ears.  Malcolm !  dear  name !  Only  to  breathe 
it  softly  to  herself  was  like  the  utterance  of  some  soothing  spell. 

After  that  glimpse  of  Mr.  Treby's  rubicund  visage  in  the  wagon- 
ette her  spirits  flagged  a  little.  She  was  glad  when  the  drag 
passed  Putney-bridge.  How  brightly  ran  the  river  under  the 
western  sun !  How  gay  the  steep  old-fashioned  street,  with  it's 
flags  and  open  windows  and  noisy  taverns  and  lounging  boating- 
men.  The  scene  had  a  garish  tawdry  look,  somehow,  and  her 
head  ached  to  desperation.  She  was  very  glad  when  they  drove 
into  the  cool  shades  of  the  Rancho. 

"  0,  yes,  thanks ;  I've  had  a  most  delightful  day,"  she  said,  in 
reply  to  Mr.  Cinqmars' inquiry  as  to  her  enjoyment  of  the  great 
festival:  "  but  the  noise  and  the  sunshine  have  given  me  a  head* 


180  Slravgers  and,  IPilrjrimi. 

ache,  and  I  think,  if  yoa  would  let  me  go  home  at  once,  it  would 
be  best  for  me." 

"  Go  home !  nonsense,  my  dear !  your  aunt  is  to  dine  with  us, 
and  take  you  lack  after  our  little  dance.  It's  only  half- past 
seven.  You  shall  have  a  cup  of  green  tea,  and  then  lie  down 
and  rest  for  an  hour,  and  you'll  be  as  fresh  as  a  rose  by  nine 
o'clock.  Turner,  take  Miss  Luttrell  to  the  bine  room,  and  make 
her  comfortable." 

This  order  was  given  to  a  smartly-dressed  maid,  who  had 
come  to  take  the  ladies'  eloaks  and  parasols. 

Elizabeth  gave  a  little  sigh  of  resignation.  If  it  were  pos- 
sible to  grow  sick  to  deatli  of  this  bright  new  world  all  in  a 
moment,  such  a  sickness  seemed  to  have  come  upon  her.  But 
from  the  maelstrom  of  pleasure,  be  it  only  the  feeblest  provin- 
cial whirlpool,  swift  and  sudden  extrication  is,  for  the  most  part, 
difficult. 

"  I  will  stop,  if  you  wish,"  she  said;  "  but  my  head  is  really 
very  bad." 

In  spite  of  her  headache,  however.  Miss  Luttrell  appeared  at 
the  banquet — which  was  delayed  by  tardy  arrivals  till  about  a 
quarter  to  ten— brightest  amongst  the  brilliant.  Mrs.  Chevenix 
was  there  in  her  glory,  oii  the  right  hand  of  Mr.  Cinqmars,  and 
was  fain  to  confess  to  herself  that  the  society  which  these  people 
contrived  to  get  about  them  was  by  no  means  despicable — a  little 
fast,  undoubtedly,  and  with  the  masculine  element  predominat- 
ing somewhat  obviously ;  but  it  was  pleasant,  when  venturing 
out  of  one's  own  strictly  correct  circle,  to  find  oneself  among  so 
many  people  with  handles  to  their  names.  Lord  Paulyn  had  by 
this  time  entirely  recovered  his  equanimity,  and  had  contrived 
to  take  Elizabeth  in  to  dinner — a  somewhat  noisy  feast,  at  which 
everybody  talked  of  the  event;  of  the  day,  as  if  it  were  the  begin- 
ning, middle,  and  end  of  the  great  scheme  of  creation.  The 
wide  windows  were  all  open  to  the  spring  night ;  hanging 
moderator  lamps  shed  their  subdued  light  upon  a  vast  oval 
table,  which  was  like  a  dwarf  forest  of  ferns,  stephanotis,  and 
scarlet  geranium.  It  was  quite  as  good  as  dining  out  of  doors, 
without  the  inconveniences  attendant  upon  the  actual  thing. 

A  little  after  eleven  o'clock  there  came  a  crash  of  opening 
chords  from  a  piano,  cornet,  and  violin,  artfully  hidden  in  a 
small  room  off  the  drawing-room,  and  then  the  low  entrancing 
melody  of  a  waltz  by  Strauss.  The  ladies  rose  at  the  soiinc^ 
and  the  greater  number  of  the  gentlemen  left  the  dining-room 
with  them. 

"  We  can  leave  those  fellows  drinking  cura^oa,  and  squab- 
bling about  the  odda  for  the  Oaks,"  said  Major  Boldiug.  *'  We 
don't  want  them." 

This  was  an  undeniable  fact,  for  the  danseuses  were  much  io 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  181 

the  minority.  There  were  asprinl<hng  of  wives  of  authors  and 
actors ;  a  few  dearest  friends  of  Mrs.  Cinqmars,  who  seemed  to 
«tand  more  or  less  alone  in  the  world,  and  to  be  free-lances  in 
the  way  of  flirtation  ;  a  young  lady  with  long  raven  ringlets  and 
a  sentimental  air,  who  was  said  to  be  something  very  great  in  the 
musical  hue,  but  was  rarely  allowed  to  exhibit  her  talents ;  a 
Btout  literary  widow,  who  founded  all  her  fashionable  novels  on. 
the  society  at  theEancho;  and  a  popular  actress,  who  could 
sometimes  be  persuaded  to  gratify  her  friends  with  the  "  Charge 
of  the  Six  Hundred,"  or  the  famous  scene  between  Mr.  Pickwick 
and  the  Bath  magistrate. 

Elizabeth  found  herself  assailed  by  ii  herd  of  eager  suppli- 
cants, who  entreated  for  round  dances.  No  one  ever  suggested 
quadrilles  at  the  Rancho,  nor  were  these  unceremonious  assem- 
blies fettered  by  the  iron  bondage  of  a  programme. 

"  Eemember,"  said  Lord  Paulyn,  "  you've  promised  me  threo 
waltzes." 

" If  I  dance  at  all;  but  I  don't  think  I  shall.'' 

"  Neither  shall  I  then,"  answered  the  Viscount,  coollj. 
•*  A  d'autres,  gentlemen.  Miss  Luttrell  doesn't  dance  to-night." 

"  I'd  rather  take  a  refusal  from  the  lady's  own  lips,  if  it's  all 
the  same  to  you,  Paulyn,"  said  Major  Bolding. 

"  The  dust  and  heat  have  given  me  an  excruciating  headache, 
and  I  really  do  not  feel  equal  to  waltzing,"  answered  Elizabeth. 

"  Shall  I  get  them  to  play  a  quadrille?" 

"No,  thanks.  I'm  hardly  equal  to  that  either;  and  I  know 
Mrs.  Cinqmars  hates  square  dances." 

"Never  mind  Mrs.  Cinqmars.     Half  a  loaf  is  better  than  no 

bread.     If  you'll  dance  the  first  set,  the  Lancers — anything 

Shall  I  tell  the  fellow  to  play  the  Grand  Duchesse  or  La  Belie 
Helene?" 

"  Please  don't.  But  if  you'll  take  me  for  a  turn  by  the  river 
I  should  be  glad.  Will  you  come,  auntie  ?  I  don't  suppose 
these  rooms  really  are  hot;  but  in  spite  of  aU  those  open  wi;i- 
dows,  I  feel  almost  stifled." 

Lord  Paulyn's  countenance  was  obscured  by  a  scowl  at  this 
proposition,  and  Mrs.  Chevenix  was  quick  to  perceive  the  cloud. 
What  could  Elizabeth  mean  by  such  incorrigible  fatuity  ?  Waa 
it  not  bad  enough  to  have  a  country  curate  in  the  backgro\;nd, 
without  introducing  a  new  element  of  discord  in  the  person  oi! 
this  dashing  major?  There  was  no  time  for  careful  diplomacy; 
the  situation  demanded  an  audacious  master-stroke. 

"  Lord  Paulyn  can  take  care  of  you,  Lizzie,"  said  the  matron, 
"  and  I'll  ask  Major  Bolding  to  give  me  his  arm ;  for  I  want  to 
talk  to  him  about  my  dear  friends,  the  Clutterbucks.  Relatives 
of  yours,  are  they  not.  Major?" 

"Yes :  Tom  Clutterbuck's  somethiner  in  the  way  of  a  cousin," 


182  Strangers  and  Pilgrima. 

growled  the  reluctant  Major,  rather  sulkily.  "  But  they're  in 
Rome,  and  I  haven't  heard  of  them  for  an  age." 

He  offered  his  arm  to  the  aunt  instead  of  the  niece,  with  a 
tolerably  resigned  air,  however,  perceiving  that  the  position  waa 
more  critical  than  he  had  supposed,  and  not  wishing  to  mar  Mise 
Luttrell's  chances.  So  Mrs.  Cheveiiix  sailed  off  through  the 
open  window  to  the  lawn,  a  ponderous  figure  in  pur])le  satin  and 
old  point,  and  Elizabeth  found  herself  constrained  to  accejDt  the 
escort  of  the  man  she  so  ardently  desired  to  keep  at  a  convenient 
distance. 

They  walked  slowly  down  to  the  river  terrace,  almost  in 
silence.  That  scene  of  a  moonlit  gai'den  by  a  moonlit  river  ia 
one  of  those  pictures  whose  beauty  seems  for  ever  fresh ;  from 
Putney  to  Reading,  what  a  succession  of  riverside  paradises 
greets  the  envious  eyes  of  the  traveller  !  And  at  sight  of  every 
new  domain  he  cries,  "  Oh,  this  is  lovelier  than  all  the  rest ! 
here  would  I  end  my  days."  And  all  mankind's  aspirations 
after  a  comfortable  income  and  a  peaceful  existence  include 

"  A  river  at  my  garden's  end." 

But  it  was  not  the  tranquil  splendour  of  the  moonlight,  or 
the  eternal  beauty  of  the  river,  that  moved  the  soul  of  Reginald 
Paulyn,  and  held  him  in  unaccustomed  silence.  He  was  angry. 
Some  dull  sparks  of  his  vexation  at  having  backed  the  wrong 
horse  yet  smouldered  in  his  breast ;  but  he  was  much  more 
angry  at  the  conduct  of  Elizabeth  Luttrell.  It  was  all  very  well 
to  be  snubbed,  to  be  trilled  with,  to  be  played  with  as  a  fish  that 
the  angler  means  to  land  anon  with  tender  care,  but  there  had 
been  something  too  much  of  this.  The  damsel  had  said  one  or 
two  thiugs  at  dinner  that  had  been  intended  to  enlighten  him, 
and  had  in  some  measure  removed  the  bandage  from  his  eyes. 
He  wanted  to  know  the  exact  meaning  of  these  speeches.  He 
wanted  to  know,  without  an  hour's  delay,  whether  she,  Eliza- 
beth Luttrell,  a  country  parson's  penniless  daughter,  were  capa- 
ble of  setting  him  at  naught. 

He  hardly  knew  in  what  words  to  frame  his  desire ;  and  per- 
haps at  this  moment,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  it  dawned 
•jpon  him  that  the  chosen  vocabulary  of  his  own  particular  set 
was  a  somewhat  restricted  language  for  a  man  in  his  position. 

Ehzabeth  made  some  remark  about  the  beauty  of  the  scene — 
80  much  better  than  any  drawing-room — and  he  answered  her 
mechanically,  and  that  was  all  that  was  said  by  either  until  they 
came  to  the  river  terrace,  by  which  time  Mrs.  Chevenix  and  her 
companion,  vfho  had  walked  briskly,  were  at  some  distance  from 
them. 

"  Stop  a  bit.  Miss  Luttrell,"  said  Lord  Paulyn,  coming  to  a 
Budden  standstill  by  the  stone  balustrade  that  guarded  a  flight 


Strangcrs  and  Pilgrims.  18i 

of  steps  leading  down  to  the  water.  "  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry 
to  overtake  those  two ;  they'll  get  on  well  enough  without  us. 
I  want  to  talk  to  you — about — about  something  very  particular." 

Elizabeth's  heart  sank  at  this  ominous  prelude.  She  felt  that 
it  was  coming,  that  crisis  which  of  late  she  had  done  her  utter- 
most to  avert. 

"  I  can't  imagine  what  you  can  have  to  say  to  me,"  she  said, 
with  an  airy  little  laugh  and  a  very  fair  assumption  of  careless- 
ness. 

Lord  Paulyn  leant  upon  the  balustrade,  with  his  elbow  planted 
on  the  etone,  looking  up  at  her  with  a  resolute  scrutiny. 

"  Can't  you  ?  "  he  asked  somewhat  bitterly.  "  And  yet  I 
should  think  it  was  easy  enough  for  you  to  guess  what  I'm 
going  to  say  to  you  in  plain  words  to-night.  I've  been  saying 
it  in  a  hundred  ways  for  the  last  six  weeks — saying  it  plain 
enough  for  any  one  to  understand,  I  should  have  thought — any 
one  in  their  senses,  at  least,  and  there  doesn't  seem  room  for 
much  doubt  aljout  yours.  I  love  you,  Elizabeth — that's  what  I 
have  to  say — and  I  mean  you  to  be  my  wife." 

'*  You  mean  me,"  cried  Elizabeth,  with  inexpressible  scorn, 
and  a  laugh  that  stung  her  lover  as  sharply  as  a  blow — "  you 
7nean  me  to  be  your  wife  !  Upon  my  honour,  Lord  Paulyn,  you 
have  quite  an  oriental  idea  of  a  woman's  position.  You  are  to 
fling  your  handkerchief  to  your  favourite  slave,  and  she  is  to 
pick  it  up  and  bring  it  to  you  with  a  curtsey." 

"  You  never  look  so  handsome  as  when  you  are  angry,"  said 
the  Viscount  undismayed,  and  smiling  at  her  wrath.  "  But 
don't  be  angry  with  me ;  I  didn't  intend  to  offend  you.  I 
should  have  said  the  same  if  you  had  been  a  princess  of  the 
blood  royal.  I  only  tell  you  what  I  swore  to  myself  last 
November,  the  day  I  tirst  saw  your  face  in  Hawleigh  church : 
That's  the  woman  I'll  have  for  my  wife.  I  never  yet  set  my 
heart  upon  anything  that  I  didn't  win  it.  1  know  how  cleverly 
you've  played  me  for  the  last  five  weeks,  keeping  me  on  by 
keeping  me  off,  eh?  But  we  may  as  well  drop  all  that  sort  of 
thing  now,  Elizabeth.  You  are  the  only  woman  in  this  world 
£"11  ever  make  a  viscountess  of;  and  of  course  you've  known 
that  all  along,  or  you  wouldn't  have  given  me  the  encourage- 
ment you  have  given  me,  in  your  ofiliand  way.  Don't  try 
to  humbug  me.  I'm  a  man  of  the  world,  and  I've  known  from 
the  first  that  it  was  a  settled  thing  between  you  and  the  old 
woman — I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Chevenix." 

"Encouragement!"  cried  Elizabeth,  aghast;  "I  give  yoti 
encouragement,  Lord  Paulyn  !  Why,  I've  done  everything  in 
the  world  to  show  you  my  indiff'erence." 

"  0,  yes ;  I  know  aJl  about  that.  You've  been  uncivil  enough, 
I  grant  you,  and  many  a  man  in  my  position  would  have  beea 


184  Strangers  and  Pilgrimg. 

cliolied  off;  but  I'm  not  that  kind  of  fellow.  You've  given  me 
as  much  of  your  society  as  circumstances  allowed — that's  the 
grand  point — and  you  must  have  known  that  every  day  made 
me  more  desperately  in  love  with  you.  You're  not  going  to 
round  upon  me  and  pretend  indifference  after  that.  It  would 
be  rather  too  bad." 

Elizabeth  was  silent  for  a  brief  space,  conscience-stricken. 
She  had  deemed  this  lordang  of  so  shallow  a  nature  that  it 
could  matter  little  how  she  tritied  with  him.  He  had  his  grmcde 
'passion,  no  doubt,  every  season — hovered  butterfly-like  around 
some  particular  flower  in  the  fashionable  parterre,  and  flew  off 
unscathed  when  London  began  to  grow  empty.  That  she  could 
inflict  any  wrong  upon  him  by  suffering  his  attentions  had 
never  occurred  to  her.  She  had  thought  at  one  time  even  that 
it  would  be  rather  nice  to  bring  him  to  her  feet,  and  astound 
him  by  a  cool  refusal.  And  even  now,  though  she  was  not  a 
little  perplexed  by  a  kind  of  rough  earnestness  and  intensity  in 
his  speech  and  manner,  she  did  feel  a  faint  thrill  of  triumph 
in  the  idea  of  his  subjugation.  It  would  be  something  to  tell 
Gertrude  and  Diana— those  representatives  of  her  little  world, 
who  had  sneered  at  the  humble  end  of  all  her  grand  ideas : 
there  would  be  not  a  little  satisfaction  to  her  pride  in  being  able 
to  tell  them  that  Lord  Paulyn  had  actually  proposed  to  her. 

The  coronet  of  the  Paulyns,  tha  airy  round  and  top  of 
Bovereignty,  floated  before  her  vision  for  a  moment,  as  she 
looked  across  the  moonlit  river,  phantom-wise,  like  Macbeth's 
dagger.  If  she  had  not  loved  that  other  one  above  the  sordid 
splendours  of  the  world,  what  a  brilliant  fortune  might  have  been 
hers  !  And  Eeginald  was  not  positively  obnoxious  to  her.  He 
was  good-looking,  seemed  good-natured,  had  been  the  veriest 
Blave  of  her  every  whim,  and  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  his 
society.  She  had  no  doubt  that  he  would  have  made  a  very 
tolerable  husband;  and  as  the  inexhaustible  source  of  carriages, 
horses,  opera-boxes,  diamonds,  yachts,  and  riverside  villas,  she 
must  needs  have  regarded  him  with  a  certain  grateful  fondness, 
had  she  been  free  to  accept  him.  But  she  was  bound  to  a  man 
whom  she  loved  to  distraction,  and  not  to  be  an  empress  would 
she  have  loosened  that  dear  bondage. 

"  It's  all  my  aunt's  fault,"  she  said,  after  that  brief  pause; 
"  I  begged  her— she  ought  to  have  told  you  that  I  am  engaged 
to  be  married." 

"Engaged!"  cried  the  Viscount;  "engaged!  Not  since 
you've  cume  to  town  !  Why,  I  know  almost  every  fellow  that 
has  been  hanging  about  you,  and  they  have  had  precious  little 
chance,  unless  it's  some  one  you've  met  at  those  confounded 
parties  on  the  other  side  of  Hyde-park." 

"  I  was  engaged  before  I  came  to  London." 


Strangera  and  Pilgnns.  185 

•'  What,  to  some  fellow  in  Hawleigh !  And  you  let  me 
dance  attendance  upon  you,  and  spend  three  mornings  a  week 
in  Eaton-]ilace,  and  follow  you  about  to  every  infernal  picture- 
gallery  till  the  greens  and  blues  in  their  confoundod  laud- 
Bcapes  gave  me  the  vertigo,  and  to  every  twopenny-halfpenny 
flower-show,  staring  at  azaleas  and  rhododendrons ;  and  then 

you  turn  round  and  tell  me  you're  engaged !     By ,  Misa 

Luttrell,  if  you  mean  what  you  say,  you're  the  most  brazen- 
faced flirt  it  was  ever  my  bad  luck  to  meet  with  in  half-a-dozeu 
London  seasons!" 

Elizabeth  drew  herself  up,  trembling  with  anger.  What,  did 
he  dare  insult  her  ?  And  had  she  really  been  guilty  ?  Con- 
science was  slow  to  answer  that  question. 

"How  dare  you  talk  to  me  like  that?  "  she  exclaimed.  " I — 
I  will  never  speak  to  you  again  as  long  as  I  Hve,  Lord  Paulyn." 
A  woman's  favourite  threat  in  moments  of  extremity,  and 
generally  the  prelude  to  a  toiTent  of  words. 

"  By  the  right  you've  given  me  every  day  for  the  last 
six  weeks.  By  the  right  which  the  world  has  assumed  when  it 
couples  our  names,  as  they  are  coupled  by  every  one  who 
knowp  us.  Throw  me  over,  if  you  like;  but  it  will  be  the 
worse  for  you  if  you  do,  for  every  one  will  say  it  was  I 
who  jilted  you.  A  woman  can't  carry  on  as  you've  carried  on, 
and  then  turn  round  and  say,  0.  I  beg  your  pardon,  it  was  all 
a  mistake ;  I'm  engaged  to  somebody  else."  And  then  sud- 
denly, with  a  still  hercer  flash  of  anger,  he  demanded,  "  Who  is 
he  ?     Who  is  the  man  ?  " 

"  The  gentleman  to  whom  I  have  the  honour  to  be  engaged  ia 
Mr.  Forde,  my  father's  curate.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  for 
you  to  make  your  complaint  about  my  conduct  to  him." 

"  Egad,  I  should  think  he'd  be  rather  astonished  if  I  did  en- 
lighten him  a  little  on  that  score!  Your  father's  curate  ?  So 
it's  for  the  sake  of  a  beggarly  curate  you  are  going  to  throw  me 
over  the  bridge." 

"  You  are  at  liberty  to  insult  me.  Lord  Paulyn,  but  I  must 
insist  upon  your  refraining  from  any  insolent  mention  of  my 
future  husband.  And  now,  perhaps,  as  we  quite  understand 
each  other,  you  will  be  good  enough  to  let  me  go  to  my  aunt." 

"  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry.  Miss  Luttrell,"  said  the  Viscount, 
white  with  anger.  That  he,  Reginald  Paulyn,  should  be 
rejected  by  any  woman  living,  least  of  all  by  a  country  vicar'a 
daaghter,  and  in  favour  of  a  country  curate !  It  was  not  to  be 
e^idnred.  But  of  course  she  was  not  in  earnest;  this  pretended 
jefusal  was  only  an  elaborate  coquetry.  "  I'm — I'm  not  a  bad- 
tempered  man,  that  I'm  aware,"  he  went  on,  after  struggling 
with  his  i-ising  ire;  "but  there  are  some  things  beyond  any 
a.aa  s  lorbearar*ce ;  and  after  leading  me  on  aa  3'ou  have  dona— 


186  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

that  you  can  look  me  in  the  face  and  tell  me  you're  going  tu 
marry  another  man  !  I  won't  believe  it  of  you ;  no,  not  from 
your  own  lips.  Come,  Elizabeth,  be  reasonable ;  drop  all  this 
nonsense.  Never  mind  if  there  has  been  some  kind  of  flirtation 
between  you  and  Forde ;  let  bygones  be  byc^ones ;  I  won't 
quarrel  with  the  past.  But  give  me  a  straight  answer,  like 
a  woman  of  the  world.  Remember,  there's  nothing  you  care 
for  in  this  world  that  I  can't  give  you ;  you  were  made  to 
occupy  a  brilliant  position,  and  I  love  you  better  than  I  ever 
loved  any  human  creature." 

He  took  her  hand,  which  she  did  not  withdraw  from  him; 
she  let  him  hold  it  in  his  strong  grasp,  a  poor  little  icy-cold  un- 
resisting  hand.  For  the  first  time  it  dawned  upon  her  that  she 
had  done  him  a  great  wrong. 

"  Do  you  really  care  for  me  ?  "  she  asked  with  a  serious  won- 
dering air.  "  I  am  so  sorry,  and  begin  to  see  that  I  have  done 
wrong ;  I  ought  to  have  been  more  candid.  But  indeed,  Lord 
Paulyn,  it  is  my  aunt's  fault.  I  begged  her  to  tell  you  of  my 
engagement.  I  would  have  told  you  myself  even,  only,"  with  a 
feeble  little  laugh,  "  I  could  hardly  volunteer  such  a  piece  of 
information  ;  it  would  have  been  so  presumptuous  to  suppose 
that  you  were  in  any  danger  from  our  brotherly  and  sisterly 
acquaintance." 

"Brotherly  and  sisterly  be  hanged!"  said  the  Yiscount; 
"  you  must  have  known  that  I  doated  on  you.  God  knows 
I've  let  you  see  it  plain  enough.  I've  never  hid  my  light  under 
a  bushel." 

After  this  there  came  another  brief  silence.  Elizabeth 
looking  thoughtfully  at  the  rippHng  water,  Lord  Paulyn 
waiching  her  face  with  a  gloomy  air. 

"Come,"  he  said  at  last,  "what  is  it  to  be?  Are  you  going 
to  throw  me  over  for  the  sake  of  this  curate  fellow?  Are  y<>u 
going  to  bury  yourself  :-'Jive  in  a  country  parsonage,  teaclimg 
a  pack  of  snivellirg-  children  psalm-singing?  You've  tasted 
blood;  you  know  something  of  what  hfe  is.  Come,  Lizzio,  be 
just  to  yourself  and  me.  Write  this  Forde  fello"-  «>  "-^II  letter 
telling  him  you've  changed  your  mind." 

"  Not  for  Egypt,"  said  Elizabeth,  turning  ner  flashing  eyes 
upon  him — eyes  which  a  moment  before  had  been  gazing 
dreamily  at  the  river.  "  You  do  not  know  how  I  love  him. 
Yes,  I  love  the  world  too,"  she  went  on,  as  if  answering  that 
Bordid  jjlea  by  which  the  Viscount  had  endeavoured  to  sustain 
his  suit;  "  I  do  love  the  world.  Its  pleasures  are  all  so  new  to 
me,  and  I  have  enjoyed  my  life  unspeakably  since  I've  been  in 
London,  yes,  in  spite  of  being  parted  from  him.  But  I  could 
no  mora  give  him  up  than  I  could  cut  my  heart  out  of  my 
body,  and  live.     I  aoi  quite  willing  to  admit  that  I  have  done 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  187 

wtong;  " — this  with  an  air  of  proud  hnniilitf  wliich  waa  very 
rare  in  Elizabeth  liuttrell —  "  I  beg  yoi;r  pardon,  Lord  Paulyu ; 
I  entreat  you  to  forgive  me,  and  accept  rcy  friendship  instead  of 
my  love.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  verjr  indulgent  to  all 
my  caprices  and  tempers,  and  believe  me  I  am  not  ungrateful. 

"Forgive  you!  "be  echoed,  with  a  harsh  laugh;  "be  your 
friend,  when  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  be  your  husband !  Eather 
hard  lines.  However,  I  suppose  friendship  must  count  for 
something ;  and  as  you  prefer  the  notion  of  psalm-singing  and 
three  sermons  a  Sunday  to  a  house  in  ]\Iayfair,  a  yacht  at 
Cowe«,  a  racing-box  at  Newmarket,  and  stables  in  Yorkshire — 
I  should  have  liked  to  show  you  my  Yorkshire  stables  and  stud 
farm,"  with  a  dreamy  fondness — "  as  you  have  made  your 
choice,  I  suppose  I  must  abide  by  it.  And  we'll  be  friends, 
Lizzie.  I  may  call  you  Lizzie,  mayn't  I  ?  It's  onlj  one  of 
the  privileges  of  friendsliip." 

"  You  may  call  me  anything  you  like,  if  you'll  only  pro  nise 
never  to  renew  this  subject,  and  to  forgive  me  for  having  un- 
wittingly deceived  you." 

The  Viscount  clasped  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  then  touched 
it  with  his  lips  for  the  first  time.  And  as  he  kissed  the  little 
vrhite  hand,  with  a  fond  lingering  pressure,  he  vowed  a  vow; 
but  whether  of  friendship  and  fealty,  or  of  passionate, 
treacherous,  selfish  love,  was  a  secret  hidden  in  the  soul  of  the 
Viscount  himself 

Elizabeth  accepted  the  kiss  as  a  pledge  of  fidelity,  and  anon 
began  to  talk  of  indifferent  subjects  with  a  somewhat  forced 
gaiety,  as  if  she  would  have  made  believe  that  there  had  been 
no  love-scene  between  Lord  Paulyn  and  herself.  They  left  the 
landing-place,  and  strolled  slowly  on  to  join  the  Major  and  aunt 
Chevenix,  who  were  both  sorely  weary  of  their  enforced 
meanderings.  The  matron  smiled  upon  Ehzabeth  with  the 
smile  of  triumph;  she  had  seen  wiose  two  motionless  figures 
from  atar  as  she  paced  the  other  end  of  the  long  terrace  with 
her  companion,  and  assured  herself  that  the  Viscount  had  come 
to  the  point. 

Now,  as  they  came  towards  her  walking  side  by  side  with  a 
friendly  air,  she  told  herself  that  all  was  well.  Elizabeth  had 
renounced  the  ways  of  foolishness,  and  had  accepted  that  high 
fortune  which  a  bounteous  destiny  had  reserved  for  her. 

"  I  said  it  when  she  was  still  in  pinafores,"  thought  Mrs, 
Chevenix ;  *'  that  girl  was  bom  to  be  a  peeresa." 


-jc^is;  iiirangers  and  FiJgrims, 

CHAPTER  IV. 

**  The  company  is  '  mix'd '  (the  phrase  I  quote  io 

As  much  as  saying,  they're  below  your  notice); 
For  a  '  mix'd  '  company  implies  that,  save 

Yourself  and  friends,  and  half  a  hundred  more, 
Whom  you  may  bow  to  without  looking  grave, 

The  rest  are  but  a  vulgar  set,  the  bore 
Of  public  places,  where  they  basely  brave 

The  fashionable  stare  of  twenty  score 
Of  well-bred  persons,  call'd   'The  World;'  but  I, 
Although  I  know  them,  really  don't  know  why." 

Bitter,  with  unutterable  bitterness,  was  tbe  disappointment  of 
aunt  Chevenix,  when  at  breakfast  next  morning  she  was  made 
acquainted  with  the  actual  state  of  affairs.  Lord  Paulyn  had 
verily  proposed,  and  had  been  rejected. 

"  To  say  that  you  are  mad,  Elizabeth,  is  to  say  nothing,"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Chevenix,  casting  herself  back  in  her  chair,  and 
regarding  her  niece  with  a  stony  gaze,  egg-spoon  in  hand ;  "you 
were  that  when  you  accepted  Mr.  Forde.  But  this  is  a  besotted 
idiotcy  for  which  even  your  previous  folly  had  not  prepared  me." 

"  You  surely  did  not  think  that  I  should  jilt  Mr.  Forde  ?" 

"  I  surely  did  not  think  you  would  refuse  Lord  Paulyn," 
echoed  her  aunt;  "  a  girl  of  your  tastes — the  very  last  of  young 
women  to  marry  a  person  in  Mr.  Forde's  position.  Upon  my 
word,  Elizabeth,  it  is  too  bad,  positively  cruel,  after  the  pride  I 
have  felt  in  you,  the  money  I  have  spent  upon  you  even,  though 
I  am  above  alluding  to  that.  Your  conduct  is  a  death-blow  to 
all  my  hopes."  And  here  Mrs.  Chevenix  wept  real  tears,  which 
she  wiped  despondently  from  her  powdered  cheeks. 

"  Pray  don't  cry,  auntie.  I  am  something  like  a  man  in  thai 
respect ;  1  can't  bear  the  sight  of  tears.  I  am  very  sorry  for 
having  disappointed  you,  but  it  would  be  hardly  a  fair  thing  to 
Lord  Paulyn  to  marry  him  while  my  heart  belongs  entirely  to 
some  one  else,  to  say  nothing  of  Malcolm  himself " 

"  Malcolm  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chevenix,  with  profound  disgust. 
"To  think  that  I  should  have  a  niece — my  favourite  niece  too — 
capable  of  marrying  a  man  called  Malcolm." 

"I'm  sorry  you  don't  like  his  name,  auntie.  To  my  ear  it  is 
music." 

"  Yes,  like  the  Scotch  bagpipes,  I  suppose,"  said  the  elder 
lady,  in  accents  of  withering  scorn. 

"  And  now,  dearest  auntie,  let  there  be  no  quarrelling  between 
us,"  pleaded  Elizabeth.  "  I  daresay  it  is  disappointing  to  you 
for  me  to  settle  down  into  a  country  clergyman's  wife,  after  all 
my  grand  talk  about  marrying  well,  and  riding  through  the 
world  in  my  own  barouche,  over  people's  bodies,  as  it  wp'*»    like 


Strangers  and  Pilyrims.  189 

the  lady  in  Koman  history.  I  did  not  know  my  own  heart  when 
I  talked  like  that.  I  di  i  uot  think  that  I  should  ever  be  weak 
enough  to  love  anybody  fifty  times  better  than  carriages  and 
horses.  Please  let  us  be  friends,"  she  went  on,  coaxingly,  and 
kneeling  down  by  the  offended  matron.  "  Lord  Paulyn  has  for- 
given me,  and  he  and  I  are  to  be  excellent  friends  for  the  rest  of 
our  lives.  Perhaps  he  will  give  Malcolm  a  living ;  I  daresay  he 
has  three  or  four  handsome  benefices  among  his  possessions." 

"  Friends  indeed !"  cried  Mrs.  Chevenix,  contemptuously;  "I'm 
snre  I  thought  last  night  that  it  was  all  settled,  and  even  began 
to  think  of  your  trousseau.  I  never  in  my  life  had  such  a  dis- 
appointment," 

Little  by  little,  however,  the  matron's  indignation,  or  the  out- 
ward show  of  that  passion,  abated,  and  she  permitted  her 
wounded  spirits  to  be  soothed  by  Elizabeth's  caresses.  Happily 
for  the  damsel,  the  business  of  life,  that  business  of  pleasure 
which  sometimes  involves  more  wear  and  tear  of  mind  and  body 
than  the  most  serious  pursuit  of  wealth  or  fame,  must  needs  go 
on.  Once  in  the  whirlpool  of  Mrs.  Cinqmars'  set,  and  there  waa 
no  escape  for  EUzabeth  and  her  chaperon ;  all  their  other  en- 
gagements were  as  nothing  to  that  lady's  demands  upon  their 
time,  and  Mrs  Chevenix,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  had 
entered  upon  a  close  alliance  with  the  mistress  of  the  Rancho. 

"  I  did  not  think  Mrs.  Cinqmars  was  at  all  your  style,  auntie," 
Elizabeth  said,  wondering  that  this  new-fledged  friendship  should 
be  so  strong  upon  the  wing. 

"  Mrs.  Cinqmars'  style  may  not  be  faultless,  but  she  is  one  of 
the  best-natured  little  women  I  ever  met,  and  has  the  art  of 
making  her  house  most  delightful,"  replied  Mrs.  Chevenix  de- 
cisively. 

"  I  think  we  ought  to  take  our  brass  bedsteads  out  to  Fulham, 
and  camp  under  the  trees,  now  the  warm  weather  has  set  in. 
We  almost  live  there,  as  it  is,"  said  Elizabeth. 

There  was  some  foundation  for  this  remark  in  the  fact  that 
Mrs.  Chevenix  and  her  niece  were  oftener  at  the  Rancho  than 
anywhere  else.  Mrs.  Cinqmars  devoted  all  the  forces  of  her 
being  to  the  pursuit  of  pleasure;  aUvi  as  the.se  gaieties  and  hos- 
pitalities assisted  Mr.  Cinqmars  not  a  little  in  the  pursuit  of 
giiin,  the  lady  was  allowed  the  free  exercise  of  her  talents  in  the 
art  of  making  people  forget  that  life  was  meant  for  anything 
trraver  or  loitier  than  a  perpetual  talkinsr  of  small-talk,  and 
quaffing  of  iced  cups  in  the  summer  sunshine,  now  under  the 
striped  awning  of  a  barge  gliding  up  the  sunlit  river,  anon  in 
the  cool  glades  of  some  primasval  forest,  like  Windsor  or  Burn- 
ham  Beeches.  If  the  destiny  of  mankind  began  and  ended  in 
picnics,  water-parties,  kettledrums,  and  private  theatricals,  Mm. 
Cinqmars  wonld  have  been  among  the  leaders  f>f  the  world;  but. 


190  Strangers  and  JPilgrimg. 

unfortunately  for  the  lady,  those  delights  are  fleeting  as  the 
bubbles  on  the  river,  and,  however  wide  their  circle  spreads, 
make  bnt  brief  impressions,  and  are  forgotten  after  a  season  or 
two.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cinqmars  might  have  commemorated  them- 
selves in  a  pyramid  as  high  as  Pharoah's,  built  out  of  empty 
champagne  bottles ;  but  so  ungrateful  are  the  butterfly  race 
they  fed,  that  almost  the  only  record  of  their  hospitality  at  the 
end  of  a  season  was  a  yard  full  of  empty  bottles,  and  the  cases, 
which  an  odd  man  chopped  up  for  firewood. 

While  the  season  lasted,  however,  Mrs.  Cinqmars  drank  freely 
of  pleasure's  sparkling  cup,  and  found  no  bitterness  even  in  the 
lees  thereof.  She  rarely  left  a  blank  day  in  her  programme. 
Every  week  brought  its  water-party  or  its  picnic.  Every  morn- 
ing found  her  breakfast-tray — she  did  not  leave  her  room  till  the 
business  of  the  day  began — piled  high  with  notes  of  acceptance 
or  refusal  in  answer  to  her  coquettish  little  notes  of  invitation. 
She  was  not  a  person  who  sent  meaningless  cards  "  requesting," 
but  wrote  dainty  little  letters  on  monogram-emblazoned  paper, 
full  of  familiar  nothings,  breathing  the  warmest  friendship. 

"  The  season  is  so  short,"  she  used  to  say  pensively,  "  one 
cannot  do  too  much  while  the  fine  weather  lasts." 

After  that  day  at  Epsom  Mrs.  Cinqmars  made  no  party  to 
which  she  did  not  invite  her  dearest  Miss  Luttrell.  She  was 
eager  for  the  society  of  her  dearest  Mrs.  Chevenix  at  all  her 
dinners  and  afternoons ;  but  there  were  picnics  and  water-partiea 
which  might  be  too  fatiguing  for  that  dearest  friend,  on  which 
occasions  she  begged  to  be  intrusted  with  the  care  of  her  sweet 
Miss  Luttrell — a  privilege  the  matron  was  not  slow  to  accord. 
Dinners  and  dances  in  Tyburnia  were  declined  with  ruthlessnesg 
in  favour  of  Mrs.  Cinqmars — ay,  even  a  dinner  in  Eaton-square, 
at  the  abode  of  a  millionaire  baronet,  in  the  iron  trade. 

"  Upon  my  word,  auntie,  I  don't  care  about  going  so  much  to 
Mrs.  Cinqmars',"  Elizabeth  remonstrated.  "I  certainly  do 
enjoy  myself  more  at  her  parties  than  anywhere  else,  but  I 
hardly  think  Malcolm  would  like  me  to  spend  so  much  time  in 
that  kind  of  society." 

"  Yon  had  better  send  a  statement  of  all  your  engagements  to 
Mr.  Forde,  and  allow  him  to  direct  your  movements,"  replied 
Mr?.  Chevenix;  and  mingled  feelings,  the  fear  of  ridicule,  and 
her  OH-n  inclination,  which  drew  her  strongly  towards  Henley 
and  Virginia  Water,  kept  Elizabeth  silent. 

Mr.  Forde's  remonstrances  about  the  length  of  her  visit  had 
abated  of  late,  for  the  Curate  had  been  summoned  to  Scotland, 
to  attend  the  sick  bed  of  one  of  his  few  remaining  kindred,  hig 
father's  only  brother,  an  old  man  to  whom  he  was  warmly 
attached.  His  letters  came  now  from  the  North,  and  were  only 
brief  records  of  8ufi"erings  from  which  there  seemed  no  hope  of 


Strangers  and  Pilgrimt.  191 

other  relief  than  death.  He  had  no  time  to  write  at  length  to 
his  betrothed,  and  no  spirits  for  letter-writincr.  "  I  don't  want 
to  sadden  yon,  dearest,"  he  wrote,  "  and  therefore  make  my 
letters  of  the  briefest,  for  my  mind  is  full  of  our  patient,  and 
the  quiet  fortitude  with  which  he  endures  this  protracted  trial, 
too  full  even  for  those  happy  thoughts  of  the  future,  which  have 
brightened  my  life  of  late.  But  I  do  look  fonvard  to  our  meet- 
ing, Lizzie ;  whatever  sorrow  may  he  between  this  hour  and  that. 
And  I  hope  to  hear  speedily  of  your  return  to  the  West." 

"  Do  you  know  if  this  uncle  is  likely  to  leave  him  any  money  ?  " 
Mrs.  Chevenix  inquired,  with  a  languid  interest,  when  she  was 
informed  of  Mi-.  Forde's  movements.  A  few  hundreds  a  year 
could  make  little  difference  in  that  poverty-stricken  career  which 
Elizabeth  had  chosen  for  herself.  It  would  be  but  as  a  grain  of 
sand,  when  weighed  agamst  a  viscount's  coronet  and  half-a- 
dozen  estates. 

"  I  beheve  Malcolm  will  be  richer,  auntie.  There  is  a  small 
estate  in  Scotland  that  must  come  to  him." 

"  A  small  estate  in  Scotkud,  where  land  rents  at  ten  shillings 
an  acre,  I  suppose.  Or  perhaps  it  is  all  waste,  mere  sand  and 
heather.  But  what  does  it  matter  ?  You  have  chosen  to  go 
through  life  a  pauper.  It  is  only  a  question  of  a  crust  of  bread 
more  or  less." 

There  was  hardly  a  necessity  for  Elizabeth  to  hurry  back  to 
Hawleigh,  to  the  untimely  cutting  off  of  all  these  summer  de- 
hghts,  when  Mr.  Forde  was  away.  She  thought  how  dreary  the 
place  would  seem  without  him.  Gertrude,  Diana,  Blanche, 
with  their  stock  phrases  and  their  perennial  commonplaces  and 
their  insignificant  scraps  of  gossip  about  the  Hawleigh  gentry ; 
the  dull  old  High-street ;  the  shop-windows  she  had  looked  at 
so  often,  till  she  knew  every  item  of  the  merchandise.  She 
thought  of  going  over  all  the  old  gronnd  again  with  a  shudder. 
"  Life  in  a  convent  would  be  gayer,"  she  thought ;  "  the  nuns 
could  not  all  be  Gertrudes  and  Dianas." 

So  she  wrote  a  dutiful  letter  to  her  betrothed,  full  of  sympathy 
with  his  sorrow,  and  informing  him  that  she  was  beginning  to 
grow  a  little  tired  of  London,  and  would  go  back  to  the  West 
directly  she  heard  of  his  return.  "  Don't  ask  me  to  go  any  sooner, 
Malcolm,"  she  said ;  "  the  place  would  seem  horrible  to  me  with- 
out you.  I  want  your  face  to  be  the  first  to  welcome  me  home.  I 
think  sometimes  of  the  days  when  we  shall  have  our  own  home, 
and  I  shall  stand  at  the  gate  watching  for  you." 

The  Derby-day  was  a  thing  of  the  remote  past,  and  Henley 
Tegatta  was  over,  before  Elizabeth  received  notice  of  Mr.  Forde's 
return.  She  had  seen  Lord  Paulyn  almost  daily  during  the 
interval,  and  his  friendship  had  never  wavered.  He  was  still 
her  devoted  a^ave,  still  patient  under  her  scornful  uoewihes,  still 


192  Strangera  and  Pilgrims. 

eager  to  gratify  her  smallest  caprice,  still  a  kind  of  barrier  be» 
tween  her  and  all  other  worship.  Serene  in  the  consciousness 
of  having  done  her  duty,  of  having,  with  a  fortitude  uukiiowu 
to  the  common  order  of  womankind,  rejected  all  the  advantages 
of  wealth  and  rank,  she  saw  no  peril  to  herself  or  her  admirer 
in  that  frivolous  kind  of  intimacy  which  she  permitted  to  him. 
It  was  an  understood  thing  that  she  was  to  be  another  man's 
wife — that  the  end  of  the  season  was  to  be  her  everlasting  fare- 
well to  worldly  pleasures.  Lord  Paulyn  appeared  to  accept  his 
position  with  gentlemanlike  resignation.  He  would  even  speak 
of  his  happier  rival  sometimes,  with  but  little  bitterness,  with 
a  good-humoured  contempt,  as  of  an  inferior  order  of  being. 
Elizabeth  thought  he  was  cured. 

Henley  regatta  and  the  longest  day  were  over,  but  the  sum- 
mer was  yet  in  its  prime — the  nights  knew  not  darkness,  only  a 
etarry  twilight  betwixt  sundown  and  sunrise. 

"  How  tired  the  sun  must  be  by  the  end  of  the  season,"  said 
Elizabeth,  "  keeping  such  late  hours,  and  always  glaring  down 
upon  races  and  regattas  and  flower-shows  and  garden-parties!  '* 

"  Don't  pity  him  :  he's  such  a  lazy  beggar,  and  so  fond  of 
skulking  behind  the  clouds  on  rainy  days,"  answered  Lord 
Paulyn.  "  I  wish  we  could  shuffle  out  of  our  engagements  as 
easily  as  he  shirks  his." 

Mrs.  Cinqmars,  who  was  never  happy  without  some  grand 
event  in  preparation,  ha'd  hardly  given  herself  time  to  breathe 
after  her  water-party  at  Henley — a  luncheon  for  five-and-twenty 
people  on  board  a  gilded  barge,  towed  up  the  river  from  Maiden- 
head— when  she  was  up  to  her  eyes  in  the  arrangement  of  pri- 
vate theatricals  for  the  tenth  of  July — a  festivity  which  was  to 
mark  the  close  of  her  hospitalities. 

"  We  start  for  Hombourg  on  the  twelfth,"  she  said,  with  a 
sigh  ;  "  and  as  I've  been  going  up  like  a  rocket  all  the  season, 
I  don't  want  to  come  down  like  a  stick  at  the  last.  So,  you  see, 
our  theatricals  must  be  a  success.  Lord  Paulyn.  It's  not  to  be 
a  common  drawing-room  business,  you  know,  but  a  regular 
affair,  for  the  benetit  of  the  Asylum  for  the  Widows  of  Indi- 
gent Stockbrokers.  Tickets  a  guinea  each.  A  few  reserved 
fauteuils  at  two  guineas." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  let  a  herd  of  strangers 
mto  your  house  ?  "  inquired  the  Viscount  with  amazement. 
"  Why,  you'll  have  the  swell-mob  after  your  plate  1  " 

"  The  tickets  will  be  only  disposed  of  by  our  friends,  yon  ob- 
tuse creature,"  said  Mrs.  Cinqmars  ;  "  but  it's  not  half  so  much 
fun  acting  before  a  lot  of  people  you  see  every  day,  as  doing  it 
In  real  earnest  for  a  benevolent  purpose.  I  shall  expect  you  to 
sell  something  like  fifty-pounds  worth  of  tickets,  and  to  bring 
all  the  hoavy  swells  vou  can  scrape  together.     I  want  the  affiiir 


Strangert  and  Pilgrimt.  193 

to  be  really  brilliant.  But  this  is  not  the  point  we  have  to  dis' 
cuss  to-day.  Before  we  can  print  our  programmes  or  stir  a  step 
in  the  business,  we  must  definitively  settle  our  pieces,  and  cast 
them." 

This  speech  was  uttered  in  a  friendly  little  gathering  beneath 
the  umbrage  of  perfumed  limes,  the  river  flashing  in  the  fore- 
ground, a  few  of  Mrs.  Cinqmars'  dearest  friends,  of  both  stxes — 
the  Viscount,  Major  Rolding,  a  young  man  in  the  War  OfBce 
with  a  tenor  voice  and  light  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  the  young 
lady  with  raven  ringlets,  a  fair  and  dumpy  young  person  whose 
husband  was  in  America,  and  Elizabeth  Luttrell — seated  in 
friendly  conclave  round  a  rustic  table,  provided  with  pens,  ink, 
and  paper ;  for  it  is  quite  impossible  to  achieve  an  arrangement 
of  this  kind  without  an  immense  waste  of  penmanship  and 
letter-i)aper.  There  was  the  usual  confusion  of  tongues,  every- 
body thinking  he  or  she  knew  more  about  private  theatricals 
than  any  one  else — Major  Bolding,  because  the  fellows  in  his 
regiment  had  once  got  up  something  at  Aldershott ;  the  dumpy 
voung  person,  because  she  had  acted  charades  with  her  sisters 
in  the  nursery  when  she  was  "  a  mite ;  "  the  tenor  in  the  War 
Office,  because  his  father  had  known  Charles  Mathews  the 
elder;  the  contralto,  because  she  had  gone  to  school  with  a 
niece  of  Mrs.  Charles  Kean's.  Only  Elizabeth  acknowledged 
her  ignorance.  "  I  know  nothing  about  plays,"  she  said,  "  ex- 
cept that  I  doat  upon  them." 

"  AVhatever  play  we  choose,  Lizzie,  I  mean  you  to  be  in  it," 
said  Mrs.  Cinqmars,  and  Elizabeth  did  not  protest  against  the 
arrangement.  She  Avas  enraptui-ed  at  the  thought  of  acting  in 
a  play — of  Uving  for  one  brief  night  the  dazzhug  hfe  of  that 
fairy  stage-world  which  was  so  new  to  her. 

About  a  hundred  plays  were  suggested,  briefly  discussed,  and 
rejected.  Mrs.  Cinqmars  seemed  to  know  every  dramatic  work 
that  had  been  written.  Every  one,  except  Elizabeth  and  Mr. 
Cinqmars,  had  his  or  her  one  idea,  by  which  he  or  she  stuck 
resolutely.  Lord  Paulyn  voted  for  Box  and  Cox,  and  could  not 
be  persuaded  to  extend  his  ideas  beyond  that  masterpi'^ce.  The 
tenor  proposed  To  ohlif/e  Benson,  because  he  knew  some  people 
who  had  acted  it  last  Christmas  down  in  Hertfordshire ;  "  and 
I'm  told  it  went  off  remarkably  well,  you  know,"  he  said ;  "  and 
people  laughed  a  good  deal,  except  one  old  gentleman  in  the 
front  row,  who  went  to  sleep  and  snored." 

"  You  stupid  people !  "  cried  Mrs.  Cinqmars ;  *'  don't  go  on 
harping  upon  one  string.  Those  are  mere  insignificant  farces, 
and  I  want  a  grand  piece  that  will  play  two  hours  and  a  half." 

After  this  came  a  string  of  suggestions,  all  alike  useless. 

"  I  only  wish  our  men  were  a  little  better,"  said  Mrs.  Cinq- 
mnxn,  with  a  despondent  survey  of  her  forces.     "  There  is  a  piece 


194  Strangers  and  Pilgrinns. 

which  I  should  like  above  all  others ;  but  it  wants  good  acting. 
jDhere  are  not  too  many  people  in  it,  and  no  troublesome  scenery, 
I  mean  Masks  and  Faces." 

Every  one  knew  Masks  and  Faces,  every  one  admired  the 
play ;  but  the  gentlemen  were  doubtful  as  to  their  capacity  for 
the  characters. 

"  I'll  play  nothing  but  Box,"  said  Lord  Paulyn ;  "  I  think  I 
could  do  that." 

"  I  don't  mind  what  I  do,  as  long  as  it's  something  to  make 
the  i^eople  laugh,"  said  Major  Bolding. 

"  Then  you'd  better  try  tragedy,"  suggested  Mr.  Hartley,  the 
tenor. 

•'  They're  playing  the  piece  at  the  Adelphi,  Lizzie,"  said  Mrs. 
Cinqmars,  intent  upon  her  own  deliberations,  and  ignoring  trivial 
interruptions.  "  We'll  all  go  to  see  it  this  evening.  You  shall 
play  Peg  Woffington.  Major  Bolding  will  do  pretty  well  for 
Vane.  Oh  yes,  you  must  do  it ;  I'll  coach  you.  Cinqmars  and 
Mr.  Hartley  can  play  Triplet  and  CoUey  Gibber ;  you,  Flory  " — 
to  the  dumpy  young  person — "will  make  a  capital  Kitty  Clive; 
and  you,  Lord  Paulyn,  must  play  Sir  Charles  Pomander,  the  vil- 
lain. I  can  get  a  couple  of  newsjjaper  men  for  Snarl  and 
Soaper,  the  two  critics.  No  remonstrances.  I  know  you  are  all 
sticks ;  but  we  know  what  great  things  can  be  done  by  a  bundle  of 
sticks.  Yoa'U  all  learn  your  words  perfectly  without  an  hour's 
delay.  Never  mind  the  acting.  We'll  arrange  that  at  rehearsal. 
The  words  and  the  dresses  are  the  two  great  points.  You  must 
all  look  as  if  you  had  walked  out  of  a  picture  by  Ward  or  Frith. 
You'll  call  at  the  Adelphi  this  afternoon,  Major,  and  engage 
half-a-dozen  stalls  for  the  rest  of  the  week ;  and  mind,  I  shall 
expect  to  see  them  occupied  every  night  before  the  curtain  goes 
up." 

After  this  came  a  great  deal  of  discussion.  Major  Bolding 
declared  his  incapacity  for  sentimental  comedy;  Lord  Paulyn  in- 
sisted that  he  could  soar  no  higher  than  Box. 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  break  down  in  that  business  with  the 
mutton-chop  and  rasher ;  and  if  I  had  plaid  trousers  with  big 
checks,  and  a  red  wig,  I  think  I  might  make  them  laugh  a  little," 
he  said ;  "  but  my  attempting  a  stage  villain  is  too  absurd.  Why, 
I  should  have  to  scowl,  shouldn't  I,  and  cork  my  eyebrows,  and 
drag  one  foot  beliind  the  other  when  I  walked  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind.  Sir  Charles  is  a  hght-comedy  villain  ; 
only  a  slight  modification  of  your  own  haw-haw  style.  You  have 
only  to  see  the  piece  acted  half-a-dozen  times  or  so.  You  shall 
have  a  wig  and  costume  that  will  almost  play  the  part  for  you." 

Lord  Paulyn  groaned  aloud.  "  Sit  in  a  stiflin'  hot  theatre  six 
nights  runniu'  to  see  the  same  fellers  in  the  same  play  !  "  he  re- 
monstrated. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrimg.  195 

"  Only  a  small  sacrifice  to  dramatic  art  and  the  indigent 
etockbrokers'  widows,"  said  Mrs.  Cinqmars,  soothingly. 

She  was  a  determined  little  woman:  and  once  having  taken  up 
the  business,  carried  it  through  with  unflagging  energy. 

The  programmes  were  printed  forthwith,  on  lace-bordered 
paper  of  palest  rose  colour,  perfumed  to  distraction  by  the  art  of 
flimmol. 

At   the   RANcno,  Fuluam   (the  Rivekside  Villa  or 

H,  DU  C.  DE  ClNQMAIlS,  EsQ.), 

FOR  THE 

BENEFIT  OF  THE  WIDOWS  OF  INDIGENT  STOCKBROKERS 
{Members  of  the  Hoiise  alone  eligible). 

MASKS    AND    FACES. 

A  Comedy  by  Charlbs  Reade  and  Tom  Tayloe. 


Sir  Charles  Pomander 
Mr.  Vane 
Colley  Gibber 
Triplet 
James  Quin  . 

Soaper       |  ^'''^''* 
Mrs.  Vaue     . 
Kate  Cllve    .         , 
Peg  Woffington 


Lord  Paultn, 
Major  BoLDiNQ. 
Mr.  Haktley. 

Mr.   UU  GUATELET  DB  CiNQMARS. 

Mr.  Beaumont. 
Mr.  Slasher, 
Mr.  Slater. 

Mrs.  DU  GUATELET  BV  ClKQMARa. 

Mrs.  Desborough. 

Miss  Elizabeth  Luttrell, 


llckets  to  be  obtained  only  from  the  Committee,  One  Guinea. 

A  limited  Number  of  Reserved  Fauteuils  at  Two  Guineas. 

Performance  to  commence  at  nine  precisely.     Carriages  may  be  ordered 

for  half -past  eleven. 

For  five  consecutive  nights  did  Mrs.  Cinqmars  and  her 
devoted  slaves  occupy  the  stalls  of  the  Adelphi,  gazing  upon  and 
listening  to  the  performance  of  Mrs.  Stirling,  Mr.  Benjamin 
Webster,  and  other  accomplished  masters  of  the  dramatic  art. 
The  blood  in  the  veins  of  the  gallant  Major  ran  cold,  as  the  fast- 
congealing  water-drops  of  an  Alpine  stream  among  the  frozen 
mountain  tops,  when  he  watched  the  movements  and  listened  to 
the  words  of  Mr.  Vane,  and  considered  that  he,  after  his  feeble 
fashion,  must  needs  reflect  the  image  of  that  skilful  actor  who 
sustained  the  part.  But  by  diligent  perusal  of  the  comedy  in  the 
solitude  of  their  own  apartments,  and  by  force  of  seeing  the 
play  five  times  running,  and  being  urged  to  attention  onu  iutt 


196  Strangers  and  Pilgrimt. 

rest  by  the  energetic  little  stage-manageress  who  eat  between 
them,  the  Major  on  the  one  side  and  the  Viscount  on  the  other, 
did  ultimately  arrive  at  some  idea  of  what  they  were  expected  to 
do;  and  when  the  first  rehearsal  took  place  at  the  Rancho,  after 
the  completion  of  these  nit^htly  studies,  Mrs.  Cinqmars  pro- 
nounced herself  very  well  satisfied  x^h  her  company.  She  had 
beaten  up  recruits  here  and  there  in  the  meantime,  and  had 
filled  her  programme.  The  tickets  had  been  selling  furiously. 
Almost  everyone  had  heard  of  the  Eancho ;  and  aspiring  middle- 
class  people  who  did  not  know  Mrs.  Cinqmars  were  glad  of  this 
opportunity  of  placing  themselves  upon  a  level  with  people  who 
did.  There  was  no  rush  of  those  lofty  personages  whom  Mrs. 
Cinqmars  had  spoken  of  as  "  heavy  swells."  A  good  deal  of 
solicitation  would  have  been  needed  to  bring  these  to  share  the 
free-and-easy  hospitalities  of  the  river-side  villa  ;  but  society  on 
the  lower  ranges  parted  freely  with  their  guineas  for  gilt-edged 
tickets  of  delicate  rose-coloured  pasteboard,  entitling  them  to 
behold  the  mysteries  of  that  notorious  abode.  Lord  Paulyn, 
hard  pressed  by  the  energetic  Flora,  did  contrive  to  enlist  the 
sympathies  of  various  horsey  noblemen  in  the  cause  of  the  stock- 
brokers' widows — men  who  were  curious,  in  their  own  word8» 
to  see  "how  big  a  fool  Paulyn  would  make  of  himself  " — but 
stately  dowagers  or  patrician  beauties  he  could  gather  none. 
Major  Bolding,  however,  beat  up  the  quarters  of  wealthy  mer- 
chants and  shipowners,  and  secured  a  handsome  attendance  of 
diamonds  and  millinery  for  the  limited  number  of  fauteuils;  and 
although  the  aspiring  soul  of  Mrs.  Cinqmars  languished  for  a 
more  aristocratic  assembly,  she  was  tolerably  cou tented  with 
the  idea  of  a  gathering  which  would  fill  her  spacious  room,  and 
in  outward  show  would  equal  the  best. 

"  If  one  has  not  what  one  loves,  one  must  love  what  one  has," 
said  the  little  woman,  flinging  back  her  flowing  raven  locks  with 
a  sigh  of  resignation.  "  We've  sold  all  the  tickets,  and  that's  a 
grand  point,  and  we  shall  have  at  least  a  hundred  pounds  for 
the  widows;  odious  snuffy  old  creatures,  I  daresay,  and  not 
worth  half  the  trouble  we  are  taking  for  them.  A  thousand 
thanks,  Major,  for  your  exertions  in  Tyburnia,  and  to  you,  Lord 
Paulyn,  for  your  labours  at  TattersaU's.  I  really  think  we  shall 
make  a  success.     Miss  LuttreU  is  a  magnificent  Wotfina^ton." 

"  Egad,  she'd  be  magnificent  in  anything,"  said  the  Viscount 
rapturously,  "I  always  think,  if  there  ever  was  such  a  person 
as  Helen,  she  must  have  been  like  Elizabeth  Luttrell.  She's 
pnch  an  out-and-out  beauty.  Don't  you  know  in  Homer,  when 
she  came  out  on  the  ramparts  where  the  old  men  were  sitting, 
though  I  dare  say  they'd  been  abusing  her  like  old  boots  before 
the  showed  up,  the  moment  they  saw  her  they  knocked  under, 
and  thought  a  ten  years'  war  was  hardly  too  much  to  have  paid 


Strangers  and  Filgrimt.  197 

for  the  privilege  of  looking  at  her.  Elizabeth  is  just  that  kind 
of  woman.  It's  no  matter  how  she  carries  on,  a  man  must  adore 
her." 

"  I  say  ditto  to  Mr.  Burke,"  said  the  Major. 

"It's  a  i^ity  she  should  marry  a  country  parson,  isn't  it^  " 
asked  Mrs.  Cinqmars,  who  had  been  made  acquainted  with 
Elizabeth's  engagement  by  the  damsel  herself,  in  a  moment  of 
confidence. 

"Fifty  to  one  against  that  marriage  ever  coming  off,"  said  the 
Major ;  "  a  pretty  girl  always  begins  with  a  detrimental,  just  to 
get  her  hand  in.  I  daresay  those  Gunning  sisters  in  King 
George's  time  were  engaged  to  some  needy  beggars  before  they 
came  up  to  London,  and  took  the  town  by  storm.  I  can't  fancy 
Miss  Luttrell  setthng  down  to  the  goody-goody  kind  of  Ufe, 
with  a  sanctimonious  fellow  in  a  white  choker." 

"  No,  by  Jove!  "  cried  Lord  Paulyn,  "  I  can  fancy  anything 
sooner  than  that.  But  she's  just  the  sort  of  girl  to  do  anything, 
however  preposterous,  if  she  once  sets  her  mind  upon  it." 

This  was  a  fragment  of  confidential  talk  in  Mrs,  Cinqmars' 
boudoir,  which  at  this  period  was  littered  with  court  swords, 
three-cornered  hats,  flowing  periwigs,  and  other  such  parapher- 
naha.  The  important  night  came  at  last,  in  an  interval  of 
tropical  weather,  the  thermometer  at  eighty-six  in  the  shade,  all 
the  greensward  in  the  parks  burnt  to  a  dismal  tawny  hue,  arid 
as  a  simoom-blasted  desert.  Heavy  insupportable  weather,  at 
which  Anglo-Indians  and  other  travellers  in  distant  climes,  from 
China  to  Peru,  grumbled  sorely,  declaring  that  they  had  en- 
countered nothing  so  oppressive  as  this  sultry  English  heat  in 
Bengal,  or  Japan,  or  Lima,  or  Honolulu,  as  the  case  might  be. 
A  damp,  penetrating  heat,  as  of  a  gigantic  hot-house.  London 
and  her  wide-spreading  suburbs  were  wrapped  in  a  dim  shroud 
of  summer  mist,  pale  and  inipal]iable  as  the  ghost  of  some  dead- 
and-gone  November  fog,  and  all  the  denizens  of  the  vast  city 
seemed  visibly  dissolving,  as  in  a  Turkish  bath.  Threatenirg 
weather,  with  the  perpetual  menace  of  a  thunderstorm  impend- 
ing in  the  leaden  sky. 

_ "  It  would  be  rather  too  bad  if  the  storm  were  to  come  to- 
night," said  Mrs.  Cinqmars,  as  she  leaned  against  the  embrasure 
of  an  open  window  languidly,  after  the  last  rehearsal,  which  had 
been  prolonged  to  within  a  couj^le  of  hours  of  the  performance. 
"  But  I  shouldn't  at  all  wonder  if  it  did.  Hark  at  those  horrible 
little  birds  twittering,  as  if  they  were  saying,  '  O  yes,  it  will 
eome  soon ;  it  can't  keep  off  much  longer ;  I  feel  it  coming.' 
And  how  the  laurel  leaves  shiver." 

"  We've  sold  the  tickets,"  said  the  Major  philosophically ; 
"the  indigent  widows  wiU  bo  none  the  worse  ofl'  if  it  raina 
bucketfuls  aU  the  eveniug." 


198  Strangers  and  Pilp'ims. 


u ' 


'Do  you  think  that  will  reconcile  me  to  our  play  being  a 
failui-e?"  cried  the  lady  indignantly.  "  Aa  if  those  snuflFy  old 
things  were  the  first  consideration !  " 

"  But  you  do  it  for  their  sakes,  you  know." 

"  For  their  sakes  !  Do  you  suppose  I  pay  Madame  Noire  \in- 
heard-of  prices  for  my  dresses  for  their  sakes  ?  I  shall  die  of 
vexation  if  we've  any  empty  benches." 

"  We'd  better  send  a  whip  round  to  the  clubs,"  said  Major 
Dolding. 

"I  don't  want  a  herd  of  men,"  exclaimed  the  aggrieved 
manageress  ;  "  I  want  a  brilliant-looking  audience, — those  Man- 
chester and  Liverpool  women  with  their  emeralds  and  diamonds. 
However,  we'd  better  disperse  at  once,  and  begin  to  think  of 
dressing.  Two  hours  is  not  too  much  for  putting  on  Pompa- 
dour costumes.  Lizzie,  you  and  I  will  have  some  tea  and  cold 
chicken  in  my  room,  if  we  can  manage  to  eat ;  and  as  for  you, 
gentlemen,  there  will  be  dinner  in  half-an-hour  in  Mr.  Cinqniars* 
study.  All  the  other  rooms  are  confiscated  to  the  interests  of 
the  widows." 

"  Are  the  widows  to  see  us  act  P "  inquired  Mr.  Hartley. 
"  They  ought,  I  think,  in  order  to  aj^preciate  the  effort  we  are 
making  for  them  at  its  just  value.  It  would  be  rather  a  clever 
move,  by  the  way,  a  row  of  old  women  in  black  bonnets.  Mrs. 
Cinqmars  could  point  to  them  when  she  speaks  her  little  epi- 
logue :  '  Behold,  kind  friends,  the  recipients  of  your  bounty.'  " 

"  It  will  be  quite  enough  to  speak  of  them.  And  now, 
gentlemen,  if  you  really  mean  to  be  dressed  by  nine  o'clock, 
you'd  better  go  to  your  rooms.  Du  Chatelet,  be  sure  you  come 
to  me  at  a  quai-ter  to  nine  to  go  over  your  scenes  for  the  very- 
last  time." 

Du  Chatelet  groaned.  He  was  the  Triplet  of  the  piece,  and 
had  sorely  toiled  in  his  laudable  desire  to  reproduce  the  looks 
and  tones  of  Mr.  Webster.  He  had  even  sacrificed  a  handsome 
black  moustache,  which  he  felt  to  be  a  costly  off'eriug,  on  the 
ehrine  of  Art. 

It  was  nine  o'clock,  and  the  storm  was  still  impending — still 
spreading  its  dark  curtain  between  earth  and  the  stars.  But  it 
had  not  come,  and  carriage  after  carriage,  the  chariots  of 
Tyburnia  and  Ecclestonia,  rolled  round  the  gravel  sweep  before 
the  broad  portico  of  the  Rancho.  The /oyer  filled  rapidly,  with 
n  pleasant  rustling  of  silks  and  satins,  a  fluttering  of  plumes, 
and  flashing  of  jewels,  until  the  half-dozen  rows  of  luxurious 
seats  became  a  very  flower-garden,  the  brilliant  colours  of  the 
more  costly  sex  only  agreeably  toned  by  the  puritan  garb  of  man. 

The  billiard-room  had  been  fitted  up  as  an  auditorium,  and  by 
a  skilful  removal  of  the  vast  window  which  filled  one  end  of  th« 
room,  and  opened  on  the  garden,  the  apartment  had  been  ex- 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  1^^ 

tended  into  a  temporary  slied  beyond,  This  shed,  with  gently- 
Blopincj  floor  and  sunk  foot-lights,  was  the  stage.  The  frame  of 
the  window,  wreathed  with  flowering  creepers  which  see/ned  to 
have  grown  up  after  the  fashion  of  the  famous  beanstalk,  formed 
the  proscenium. 

The  brilUant  light  in  the  auditorium  sank  gently  to  a  semi- 
darkness  as  the  band,  hidden  in  a  little  ofF-room,  attacked  the 
overture  to  Masaniello.  People  had  just  time  enough  to  look 
about  them  before  the  lights  went  down,  the  women  surveying 
one  another's  dresses,  the  men  looking  about  for  people  they 
knew.  Mrs.  Ciiiqmars  beheld  her  audience  through  a  hole  in 
the  curtain,  which  Major  Bolding  had  made  with  his  penknife 
for  her  convenience,  and  was  satisfied. 

"They  look  very  well,  don't  they?]'  she  asked.  "You'd 
hardly  think  they  wer»  not  the  real  thing — not  hall-marked — 
only  electro-plated." 

Mrs.  Chf  venix  occupied  one  of  the  fauteuils,  in  a  cool  and 
somewhat  Juvenile  costume  of  pale-gray  silk  and  areophane, 
with  pink  ribbons,  and  a  blonde  Marie-Stuart  cap  surmounted 
with  pink  marabouts,  pink  marabouts  edging  her  fan,  pink 
swansdown  on  her  gloves.  Her  own  dress  was  new  and  had 
cost  money,  but  the  cost  thereof  was  as  nothing  compared  with 
the  expense  of  Elizabeth's  satin  train  and  point-lace-flounced 
petticoat,  and  the  powdered  wig  which  was  to  make  her  look 
like  Madame  de  Pompadour  in  Boucher's  famous  picture.  Yet 
all  this  expenditure  had  the  devoted  axint  borne  without 
grumbling,  or  only  an  occasional  faint  and  plaintive  sigh. 

If  there  were  sufficient  recomjjense  for  this  outlay  in  Eliza- 
beth's triumph,  Mrs.  Chevenix  received  such  recompense  with- 
out stint.  From  the  first  moment  to  the  last  of  that  perform- 
ance the  girl  was  triumphant,  resplendent  with  beauty  and 
genius,  giving  her  whole  heart  and  soul  to  the  magic  of  the 
stage,  living,  breathing,  thinking,  as  Peg  Woffington.  The 
mediocrity  of  her  fellow-actors  mattered  nothing  to  her.  They 
6]X)ke  the  words  they  had  to  speak,  so  that  no  hitch  arose  in 
the  stage  business,  and  that  was  all  she  needed  to  sustain  the 
illusion  of  the  scene.  There  was  jjassion  enough  and  force 
enough  in  her  own  soul  to  have  animated  a  theatre ;  there  was 
an  electricity  as  subtle  as  the  electricity  in  the  overcharged 
atmosphere,  a  magnetic  force  which  inspired  and  excited,  instead 
of  depressing. 

Mrs.  Cinqmars  revelled  in  the  sentimentahties  of  Mabel 
Vane;  rolled  her  large  eyes  and  flung  about  her  superb  hair — 
she  would  wear  no  wig  to  conceal  that  natural  abundance — to 
her  heart's  content,  and  made  a  graceful  little  heroine  of  the 
lachrymose  school.  But  Elizabeth  was  the  very  creature  one 
could  fancy  Margaret  Woffington  in  her  prime — the  generous, 


200  Strangers  and  Pilgrimt. 

reckless,  audacious  beauty,  proud  of  her  power  over  the  hearts 
of  men,  brimming  over  with  life  and  genius,  but  with  unfathom- 
able depths  of  tenderness  lurking  beneath  that  brilliant  surface. 

Tyburnia  and  Ecclestonia,  and  all  the  men  about  town  who 
formed  the  staple  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cinqmars'  set,  applauded 
with  a  unanimity  that  for  once  in  a  way  came  from  the  heart. 
They  felt  that  this  was  verily  dramatic  art,  hardly  the  lesa 
finished  because  it  was  the  fruit  of  only  a  fortnight's  study. 
The  actress  had  picked  up  the  technicalities  of  her  part  during 
those  studious  nights  in  the  theatre ;  inspiration  and  a  fresh  and 
ardent  love  of  art  had  done  the  rest,  and  the  impersonation  was 
as  perfect  as  any  amateur  performance  can  possibly  be,  with  all 
the  added  charm  of  freshness  and  sincerity  which  can  hardly 
accompany  the  profound  experience  of  professional  training. 
An  actress  who  had  trodden  the  beaten  round  of  the  drama, 
more  or  less  like  a  horse  in  a  mill,  could  surely  never  fling  her- 
self with  such  passionate  feeling  into  one  part  as  this  girl,  to 
whom  the  magic  of  the  stage  was  new. 

Mr.  Cinqmars  quavered  and  sniffed  and  snivelled  in  the 
character  of  Triplet,  with  an  abject  senility  which  would  have 
been  senile  in  a  great-grandfather  of  ninety,  but  copied  the 
stage  business  with  some  dexterity,  and  won  his  share  of  ap- 
plause. Lord  Paulyn  and  Major  Bolding  were  dressed  superbly, 
and  managed  to  get  through  their  work  with  credit  to  themselves 
and  the  stage-manageress ;  and  as  coffee  and  Neapolitan  ices 
were  lavishly  administered  between  the  two  acts,  without  any 
toll  being  exacted  thereupon  for  the  widows,  the  aristocracy  of 
commerce  in  the  two-guinea  fauteuils  were  inclined  to  think 
they  had  received  fair  value  for  their  money.  As  for  the  herd 
of  young  men  who  blocked  the  back  of  the  auditorium,  where 
there  was  little  more  than  standing  room,  they  were  simply  in 
ecstasies.  The  girl's  beauty  and  genius  fired  their  souls.  They 
protested  vehemently  that  she  ought  to  go  on  the  stage,  that 
she  would  take  the  town  by  storm,  and  much  more  to  the  same 
effect;  forgetting  that  this  flame  which  burned  so  brilliantly  to- 
night might  be  only  a  meteoric  light,  and  that  although  a  clever 
young  woman,  with  an  ardent  nature,  may  for  once  in  her  life 
fling  herself  heart  and  soul  into  a  stage-play,  and  by  a  kind  of 
inspiration  dispense  with  the  comprehension  and  experience 
that  can  only  come  from  professional  training,  it  is  no  reason 
she  should  be  able  to  repeat  her  triumph,  and  to  go  on  repeating 
it  ad  libitum.  Never  again  in  Elizabeth  Luttrell's  existence 
was  she  to  live  the  delicious  life  of  the  stage,  to  lose  the  sense 
of  her  personality  in  the  playwright's  creation.,  to  act  and  think 
and  be  glad  and  sorry  with  an  imaginary  creature,  the  centre 
of  an  imaginary  world. 
Among  the  crowd  of  white  neckties  and  swallow-tailed  coati 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  201 

at  the  end  of  tlie  room,  there  was  one  gentleman  who  stood  near 
tho  door,  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  a  tall  immovable 
figare,  and  who  seemed  to  know  nobody.  He  was  taller  by  half 
a  liead  than  the  majority  of  the  men  standing  in  the  crowded 
Bfiace  behind  the  lust  row  of  seats,  and  he  was  able  to  survey 
the  stage  across  the  carefully-parted  hair  of  the  gentleman  in 
fro'it  of  him.  This  gentleman  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about 
Elizabeth  Lnttrcll,  to  which  the  stranger  listened  intently,  with 
a  bomewhat  moody  countenance. 

"  Yes,"  said  this  fopling  to  his  friend,  n  the  interval  between 
the  second  and  third  act — the  stranger  had  only  entered  the 
room  towards  the  close  of  the  second — "yes,  it's  a  great  match 
for  her,  of  course;  only  a  country  parson's  daughter,  without  a 
sixpence,  except  anything  she  may  get  from  her  aunt,  Mrs. 
Chevenix,  the  widow  of  a  man  who  was  a  bishop,  or  a  judge,  or 
something " 

"  Is  it  a  settled  thing?"  asked  the  other. 

"  Of  course  it  is.  Why,  they  go  everywhere  together.  I  was 
introduced  to  her  at  the  Derby  ;  he  drove  her  down  in  his  drag, 
with  Mrs.  Cinqmars  to  play  Propriety,  on  the  obscurum  facere 
•per  ohscurius  principle,  I  suppose.  And  you'll  find  him  here 
continually,  dancing  attendance  upon  Miss  Luttrell,  and  spoon- 
ing to  an  extent  that  is  humiliating  to  one's  sense  of  manhood." 

"  I  didn't  think  that  was  in  Paulyn's  line;  I  thought  he  went 
in  for  race-horses  and  prize  yachts,  and  tliat  kind  of  thing." 

"  Yes ;  there's  the  rub.  This  is  his  first  appearance  in  the 
character  of  a  love-sick  swain ;  and  like  a  patient  who  takes 
the  measles  late  in  life,  he  exhibits  the  disease  in  its  most 
aggravated  form." 

"  There's  not  much  in  him  at  the  best  of  times,"  said  the 
other,  with  the  air  of  a  man  whose  own  intellectual  gifts  were  of 
the  highest  order,  and  who  therefore  surveyed  mankind  from  an 
altitude.     "  Do  you  think  she  likes  him  ?" 

"  Do  I  think  she  is  in  full  possession  of  her  senses  ?"'  an- 
Bwared  his  friend,  laughing ;  "  and  that,  being  so,  she  would  be 
likely  to  turn  up  her  nose  at  such  a  position  as  he  can  give  her  ? 
There's  hardly  a  richer  man  than  Paulyn  about  town — bar  tha 
Marquis  of  Westminster.  The  love  of  money  is  an  hereditary 
vice  in  his  family,  and  his  ancestors  have  scraped  and  hoarded 
from  generation  to  generation.  He  is  one  of  the  few  gentlemen 
who  con  trive  to  make  money  on  the  turf.  The  bookmen  hate 
him  like  poison.  He's  a  lamb  they  seldom  have  the  privilege  of 
skinning.  There  isn't  a  deeper  card  out ;  and  I  can't  say  I  envy 
that  lovely  girl  the  life  she's  likely  to  lead  with  him,  when  she's 
his  own  property  and  he  gets  tired  of  spooning.  But  for  all  that 
T  don't  beheve  there's  a  girl  in  London  would  have  refused 
him." 


102  Strangers  and  Pilgrime. 

Tleasant  intelligence  this  for  the  tall  stranger,  whose  name 
was  Malcoliu  Forde. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Et  je  songeais  comme  la  femme  onblie, 
Et  je  sentais  un  lambeau  de  ma  vie 
Qui  se  dechirait  lentement." 

Mr.  Fordk  had  come  np  from  Scotland  on  the  tenth  of  July, 
intending  to  surprise  Elizabeth  by  his  nnexpected  appearance  in 
Eaton-place.  He  had  fancied  her  bright  look  of  rapture  as  she 
came  into  the  room  and  saw  him,  after  having  been  told  only 
that  a  gentleman  from  Hawleigh  wished  to  see  her — the  look 
she  had  given  him  so  many  times  during  the  brief  happy 
fortnight  that  followed  their  betrothal;  those  happy  days  in 
which  they  had  enjoyed  for  but  too  short  a  space  the  privileges 
of  plighted  lovers,  had  walked  alone  together  on  the  dull  March 
afternoon,  when  the  Curate's  labours  allowed  him  such  a  blessed 
interval,  and  had  talked  of  the  future  they  were  to  share — a 
lowly  destiny,  but  with  the  light  of  true  love  shining  upon  it. 

Thus  had  he  thought  of  his  betrothed  during  the  tedious 
journey  from  the  North,  tedious  though  he  travelled  express  for 
the  greater  part  of  the  way.  He  came  fresh  from  the  perform- 
ance of  a  mournful  duty,  for  only  two  days  ago  he  had  read  the 
funeral  service  above  the  remain«  of  his  father's  brother,  the 
bachelor  uncle  who  had  been  almost  a  second  father  to  him.  He 
had  not  even  written  to  tell  Elizabeth  of  his  uncle's  death.  It 
would  be  easier  to  tell  her  when  they  met.  He  had  made  all  his 
plans.  He  meant  to  stay  in  London  for  a  few  days,  while 
Elizabeth  wound  up  her  visit,  and  then  to  take  her  back 
to  Devonshire  with  him.  And  then  it  would  be  time  to  think 
of  their  wedding-day.  He  was  richer  by  some  four  hundred  a 
year  since  his  uncle's  death,  and  he  had  lately  received  the  offer 
of  a  very  fair  living  in  the  north  of  England.  Since  he  had 
surrendered  his  old  heroic  idea  of  his  ministry,  and  had  deter- 
mined that  his  hues  were  to  be  cast  in  pleasant  places,  there  was 
really  nothmg  to  hinder  the  realisation  of  his  wishes. 

Only  when  he  was  rattling  along  in  a  cab  between  Euston- 
square  and  Eaton-place  did  he  bethink  himself  that  Elizabeth 
would,  in  all  probability,  be  out.  It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock, 
and  she  went  out  so  much,  as  her  letters  inforiaed  him.  He 
could  hardly  hope  to  be  so  fortunate  as  to  find  her  at  home. 
And  then  he  reproached  himself  for  this  childish  foolishness 
of  his  in  wishing  to  surprise  her,  instead  of  telegraphing  the 
announcement  of  his  advent,  as  a  sensible  man  would  have  done. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  203 

*•  Do  love  and  folly  always  go  hand  in  hand?  "  he  wondered. 

His  forebodings  of  disappointment  were  fully  realised.  "  Not 
at  home,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix's  single-handed  indoor  servant,  a 
man  whose  pompous  bearing  might  have  impressed  strangers 
with  the  idea  that  he  had  an  under-butler  and  a  staff  of 
accomplished  footmen  for  his  vassals,  "  Not  erpected  home  till 
late  this  evening." 

Mr.  Forde  had  alighted  from  his  cab,  and  stood  in  the  stnocoed 
porch  despondent. 

"  Have  you  any  idea  where  they're  gone?"  he  asked. 

Any  idea  indeed!  Why,  the  butler  was  as  familiar  with  his 
mistress's  engagements  as  that  lady  herself. 

"  They  are  gone  to  the  hamachure  theatricals  at  the  Rancho, 
Mr.  Cinkmarsh's  place,  at  Fulham." 

"  Amateur  theatricals!"  repeated  Malcolm  hopelessly. 

"  Yes,  replied  the  butler,  who  was  of  a  communicative  dispo- 
sition; "my  missus's  niece,  Miss  Luttrell,  hacks  the  principal 
character;  and  my  missus's  maid,  as  has  seen  her  rehearsalling, 
and  has  gone  down  to  dress  her  this  evening,  says  she  do  hack 
wonderful,  jest  like  the  regular  thing,  only  not  so  low.  It's  a 
pity  you  didn't  buy  a  ticket,  sir,  as  you're  a  friend  of  the 
fambly." 

Private  theatricals,  and  his  wife-elect  the  centre  of  observa- 
tion !  He  was  not  strait-laced  or  puritanical  in  his  ideas,  but 
this  performance  hardly  seemed  to  him  in  harmony  with  the 
part  she  had  elected  to  play  in  the  drama  of  life.  But  she  had 
been  minded  to  taste  the  cup  of  pleasure,  and  she  was  evidently 
drinking  its  strongest  waters.  She  had  told  him  nothing  of 
these  amateur  theatricals — a  curious  reticence. 

"  Buy  a  ticket,"  he  repeated,  echoing  the  friendly  butler.  "  Do 
you  mean  that  tickets  have  been  sold  ?  It  iB  a  public  business, 
then?" 

"  Well,  sir,  it  is  and  it  isn't,  aa  you  may  say.  The  perform- 
ance is  for  the  benefick  of  a  charitable  institooshun — the 
hindignant  widows,  and  Mrs.  Cinkmarsh  have  kindly  lent  her 
'ouse  for  the  occasion,  and  the  tickets  have  been  only  sold  by 
th(j  committee,  so  you  see  it's  public  from  one  pint  of  view,  and 
private  from  the  other." 

"Where  could  I  get  a  ticket?"  asked  the  Curate  moodily. 
This  public  exhibition,  this  playing  at  charity,  was  just  the  very 
last  thing  he  could  have  desired  for  his  future  wife,  just  the  very 
tiling  he  would  have  forbidden  at  any  cost  had  he  been  afforded 
the  opportunity  of  forbidding  it. 

"  And  to  keep  it  hidden  from  me,"  he  thought ;  "  2  bad  be- 
ginning for  that  perfect  trust  which  was  to  reign  between  us." 

"  I  d'.ni't  know  as  you  could  get  one  anywhere's  to-night,  sir," 
replied  the  butLir  thc-ughtfully,  "  unless  I  was  to  get  it  fc-  yoiu 


204  Strangerg  and  Pilgrim*. 

My  missus  is  on  the  committee,  and  I  know  she  had  a  lot  (h 

tickets  to  sell,  and  kep  'era  up  to  yesterday  in  a  china  basket  in 
the  drawring-room.  If  they're  there  still,  I  might  take  the 
liberty  of  gettin'  one  for  yon ;  bein'  for  a  charitable  purpose,  I 
don't  think  missus  would  objeck  to  my  disposin'  of  one." 
"  Get  me  one,  then,  like  a  good  fellow." 
"  The  tickets  are  a  guinea  heach,"  said  the  butler  doubtfnll}', 
thinking  this  eag^r  gentleman  might  ask  for  credit. 

Mr.  Forde  took  a  handful  of  loose  money  from  his  pocket. 
"Here  are  thirty  shillings,"  he  said;  "  a  guinea  for  the  ticketj 
and  the  balance  for  your  trouble." 

The  man  was  gratified  by  this  donation,  for  in  these  degenerate 
days  vails  are  an  uncertain  quantity.  He  produced  the  ticket 
speedily,  instructed  Mr.  Forde  as  to  the  nearest  way  to  the 
Rancho,  guarded  the  wheel  of  the  hansom  as  he  got  into  it,  and 
delivered  the  Curate's  address  to  the  charioteer  with  as  grand  an 
air  as  if  he  had  been  instructing  the  coachman  of  an  archbishop. 
"  British  Hotel,  Cockspur-street,"  he  said,  and  thither  Mr. 
Forde  was  driven  by  way  of  Belgrave-square  and  Birdcage- 
walk.  A  nota  bene  on  the  gilt-edged  ticket  informed  him  that 
full  dress  was  indispensable. 

He  dined  hastily  in  the  deserted  coffee-room — a  sorry  dinner, 
for  he  was  in  that  frame  of  mind  in  which  dining  is  the  most 
dismal  mockery — a  mere  sacrifice  to  the  conventionalities — dined, 
and  then  went  to  his  room  and  dressed  hurriedly,  with  his 
thoughts  strangely  disturbed  by  this  trivial  business  of  the 
private  theatricals. 

But  it  -vas  not  trivial — for  Elizabeth's  reticence  had  been  a 
tacit  deception — it  was  not  trivial — for  unless  she  had  been  ut- 
terly wanting  in  love's  truthful  instinct,  she  must  have  known 
that  this  public  exhibition  of  herself  would  be  of  all  things  the 
moat  hateful  to  him. 

He  was  not  a  tyrant — he  had  never  meant  to  tyrannise  over 
this  fair  young  creature  who  had  madehim  lovelier,  in  very  spite  of 
his  own  will.  But  he  had  meant  to  mould  her  into  the  shape  of 
his  still  fairer  ideal — the  woman  whose  claim  to  manly  worship 
was  something  higher  than  the  splendour  of  her  eyes  or  the 
golden  glory  of  her  hair — the  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned. 
He  had  fondly  hoped  that  in  Elizabeth  there  was  the  material 
for  Kuch  a  woman— that  he  had  only  to  play  the  sculptor  in 
order  to  develop  undrearct-of  graces  from  this  peerless  block  of 
marble. 

There  were  some  letters  waiting  for  him  at  the  British — 
letters  which  had  been  sent  on  from  Lenorgie,  where  they 
arrived  after  his  departure.  He  had  spent  the  day  and  niglit 
after  the  funeral  with  a  friend  in  Edinburgh,  where  he  ha4 
business  to  transact. 


iStrangcrs  and  Pilgrims.  205 

Two  were  mere  business  epistles;  the  third  was  in  a  hand  that 
was  strange  to  him — rather  a  singular  hand,  with  straight  up 
and  down  letters,  but  of  an  angular  scratchy  type,  which  he  felt 
must  be  feminine.  It  bore  the  post-mark  of  Hawleigh.  It  waa 
that  snake  in  the  grass,  an  anonymous  letter. 


« 


'Mr.  Forde  will  be  perhaps  surprised  to  learn  that  Miss 
Luttrell  has  given  much  encouragement  to  an  aristocratic 
admirer  during  her  stay  in  London.  She  has  laeen  seen  on  the 
front  seat  of  Lord  Paulyu's  four-in-hand,  returning  from  Epsom 
races :  a  circumstance  which  has  occasioned  some  talk  among  the 
strait-laced  inhabitants  of  Hawleigh.  This  friendly  hint  is  sent 
by  a  sincere  well-wisher. 
"Hawleigh,  July  7th." 

"  An  aristocratic  admirer — Lord  Paulyn  !  She  has  suffered 
her  name  to  be  associated  with  his  so  much  as  to  give  an  excuse 
for  this  venomous  scrawl  !  I  will  not  believe  it.  The  venom  is 
self-engendered.  This  vile  letter  is  from  some  envious  woman 
who  hates  her  for  all  the  gifts  that  render  her  so  much  more 
charming  than  other  women." 

He  crushed  the  venomous  scrawl  in  his  strong  hand,  and 
thrust  it  into  the  depths  of  a  remote  pocket.  Yet,  however  mean 
the  spirit  of  the  anonymous  slanderer,  however  contemptible  the 
slander,  it  stung  him  not  the  less,  as  such  venom  does  sting,  in 
spite  of  himself. 

"  I  shall  see  her  face  to  face,"  he  thought,  "  in  an  hour  or 
two — shall  be  able  to  scold  her  for  her  folly,  and  take  her  to  my 
heart  for  her  penitence ;  and  be  angry  with  her,  and  forgive  her, 
and  adore  her  in  the  space  of  a  minute ;  and  I  shall  see  the  scorn 
in  her  proud  eyes  when  I  tell  her  she  has  been  accused  of 
encouraging  my  rival." 

The  drive  to  the  Rancho  gave  Mr.  ForJe  ample  leisure  for 
thought ;  for  going  over  and  over  the  same  ground  with  an 
agonising  repetition  of  the  same  ideas  ;  for  the  amplification  of 
those  vague  doubts,  those  httle  clouds  in  love's  heaven,  no 
bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  until  they  grew  wide  enough  to 
darken  all  the  horizon.  The  shades  of  Fulham  seemed  endless. 
He  stopped  the  driver  more  than  once  to  ask  if  he  were  not 
going  wrong;  but  the  man  told  him  No:  he  knew  Bishop's- 
lane  well  enough,  close  agen  Putney-bridge ;  and  the  locality  of 
the  Rancho,  as  indicated  by  Mr.  Forde's  ticket,  was  Bishop's-lane 

They  drove  into  the  lane  at  last,  a  dismal  by-road  oetween 
high  walls,  just  wide  enough  for  a  couple  of  carriages  to  pass 
each  other,  with  imminent  peril  of  grazing  the  wheels  or  the 
horses  against  a  wall.  One  could  hardly  have  expected  to  find 
i  suburban  paradise  in  such  a  neigh  bo  uthood ;  and  in  spite  of 


206  Strangerg  and  PilgritM. 

his  preoccnpation,  Mr.  Forde  looked  about  him  with  surprise  ai 
the  hansom  dashed  in  at  an  open  gateway,  made  a  swift  circuit 
of  a  dark  sk rubbery  of  almost  tropical  luxuriance,  and  anon  drew 
up  before  a  long  low  house,  lighted  like  a  fairy  palace. 

He  gave  his  ticket  to  a  functionary  who  looked  like  a  profes- 
sional boxkeeper.  and  was  admitted  to  a  spacious  chamber  filled 
to  overflowing  with  a  fashionable-looking  audience.  The  play 
was  more  than  half  over — there  was  only  standing-room — and 
the  central  figure  of  the  group  on  the  brilliantly-lighted  stage, 
the  focus  of  every  eye,  was  the  girl  he  loved — the  perfect  woman, 
nob!y  planned,  &c. 

He  was  but  mortal,  so  he  could  not  withhold  his  admiration  of 
her  grace  and  beauty,  and  was  half-inclined  to  forgive  her 
because  she  was  so  lovely  and  gracious  a  creature.  Then  the 
curtain  fell  at  the  close  of  the  second  act,  and  the  men  in  front 
of  him  began  to  talk  of  her,  and  he  heard  what  the  world 
thought  of  Elizabeth  Luttrell 

The  blow  almost  stunned  him.  He  heard  much  more  than 
has  been  recorded  :  heard  how  men  talked  of  his  perfect  woman; 
heard  Mrs.  Chevenix's  manoeuvres  freely  discussed,  and  EUza- 
beth's  co-operation  in  all  the  matron's  schemes  spoken  of  as  an 
established  fact.  His  first  and  almost  irresistible  impulse  was 
to  knock  the  slanderers  down.  He  felt  as  unregenerately- 
minded  upon  this  point  as  if  he  had  come  fresh  from  the  mess- 
table,  his  brain  fired  with  wine  and  laughter.  But  he  conquered 
the  inclination,  and  stood  quietly  by,  and  heard  from  the  lips  of 
some  half-dozen  speakers  what  the  world  thought  of  the  woman 
he  loved.  It  was  pot  that  anything  specially  ill-natured  was 
said ;  the  men  hardly  knew  that  their  remarks  were  derogatory 
to  womanly  dignity.  It  was  their  way  of  discussing  such 
topics.  But  for  Malcolm  Forde  it  meant  the  ruin  of  that  new 
scheme  of  life  which  he  had  made  for  himself.  The  airy  fabric 
built  by  hope  and  love  perished,  like  an  enchanted  city  that 
melts  into  thin  air  at  the  breaking  of  a  spell.  He  did  not  for  a 
moment  suspend  his  judgment,  did  not  stay  his  wrath  to  con- 
sider how  much  or  how  httle  justification  thers  might  be  for  this 
careless  talk. 

These  men  spoke  of  facts — spoke  of  Elizabeth's  engagement 
to  the  Viscount  as  a  fact  concerning  which  there  could  be  no 
doubt.  And  she  had  doubtless  given  them  ample  justification 
for  this  idea.  She  had  been  constantly  seen  in  his  society.  He 
"  spooning  " — odious  worJ  ! — in  a  manner  that  made  his  passion 
obvious  to  the  eyes  of  all  men. 

Could  he  take  this  woman — her  purity  for  ever  tarnished  by 
such  contact — home  to  his  heart  P  Was  such  a  woman — who, 
with  her  faith  plighted  to  him,  could  surrender  herself  to  all  the 
follies  of  the  town,  and  link  her  name  with  yonder  profligate — • 


Strangers  and  Pilgrimt.  207 

was  Buch  a  woman  worthy  of  the  sacrifice  he  had  been  prepared 
to  make  for  her — the  sacrifice  of  the  entire  scheme  of  his  life ; 
theory  and  practice  alike  abandoned  for  her  sake? 

"She  would  have  made  me  a  sensuous  fool,"  he  thought; 
"  content  to  dawdle  through  life  as  her  father  has  done,  living 
at  my  ease,  and  making  coals  and  beef  and  blankets  the  substi- 
tute for  earnest  labour  among  my  flock.  What  might  she  not 
have  made  of  me  if  my  eyes  had  not  been  opened  in  time  ?  I 
loved  her  so  weakly." 

He  put  his  passion  already  in  the  past  tense.  He  had  no 
thought  of  the  jDOssibility  of  his  forgiving  the  woman  who  had 
deceived  him  so  basely. 

"  Of  course  she  meant  all  the  time  to  marry  Lord  Paulyn,  if 
he  proposed  to  her.  But  in  the  mean  while,  for  the  mere  amuse- 
ment of  an  idle  hour,  she  made  love  to  me,"  he  thought  bitterly, 
remembering  that  nothing  had  been  farther  from  his  thoughts 
than  proposing  to  Elizabeth  when  she  laid  in  wait  for  him  that 
March  night,  and  cut  ojT  his  retreat  for  ever  with  the  fatal  magic 
of  her  beauty,  and  the  tones  and  looks  that  went  straight  to  his 
heart. 

He  must  see  her  as  soon  as  the  play  was  over,  must  cast  her 
out  of  his  life  at  once  and  for  ever,  must  make  a  swift  sudden 
end  of  every  link  between  them. 

"  I  might  write  to  her,"  he  thouylifc ;  "  but  perhaps  it  would 
be  better  for  us  to  meet  once  more  face  to  face.  If  it  is  possible 
for  her  to  justify  herself  she  shall  not  be  without  the  opportu- 
nity for  such  justification.     But  I  know  that  it  is  impossible." 

When  the  curtain  had  fallen  for  the  last  time^  and  Elizabeth 
had  curtseyed  her  acknowledgment  of  a  shower  of  bouquets, 
and  the  enthusiasm  in  the  parterre  was  still  at  its  apogee,  IM.r. 
Forde  departed.  Not  to-night  would  he  break  in  upon  her  new 
existence.  Let  her  taste  all  the  deUglits  of  her  triumph.  To- 
morrow would  be  time  enough  for  the  few  quiet  words  that  were 
needed  for  his  eternal  severance  from  the  woman  he  had  loved. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

**  Since  there's  no  help,  come,  let  ua  kiss  acd  part  *. 

liay,  I  have  done  ;  you  get  no  more  of  me ; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart, 

That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free  ; 
Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain." 

Elizabeth  was  sitting  alone  in  the  shady  back  drawing-room  on 
the  morning  after  her  triumph,  carelessly  robed  in  white  muslin. 


208  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

pale,  exhausted,  languid  as  the  lady  in  Hogarth's  "  Marriaj^e  S 
la  Mode."  Mrs.  Chevenix  was  recruiting  her  forces,  mental  and 
physical,  by  prolonged  and  placid  slumbers;  but  Elizabeth  was 
not  of  the  order  of  being  who  can  sleep  off  the  fumes  of  dissipa- 
tion so  easily.  Her  brief  night  had  been  a  perpetual  fever ;  the 
voice  of  adulation  still  in  her  ears;  the  lights,  the  faces  of  the 
crowd,  still  before  her  dazzled  eyes ;  the  passion  and  feeling  of 
Peg  Woffington  still  racking  her  heart.  "  I  wonder  actresses 
don't  all  die  young,"  she  thought,  as  she  tossed  her  weary  head 
from  side  to  side,  vainly  seeking  slumber's  calm  haven. 

Now  she  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  prostrate,  an  unread  novel  in 
her  hand,  a  cup  of  tea  on  a  tiny  table  by  her  side,  a  fan  and 
scent-bottle  close  at  h^nd,  for  she  had  taken  to  her  aunt's  man- 
ner of  sustaining  life  in  its  feebler  moments. 

She  threw  aside  her  novel  presently,  and  unfurled  her  fan. 

"  I  wish  I  were  really  an  actress,"  she  thought ;  "  that  would 
be  a  life  worth  living :  to  hear  that  thunder  of  applause  every 
night,  to  see  every  eye  fixed  upon  one,  a  vast  audience  Ustening 
with  a  breathless  air :  and  to  move  in  a  strange  world — a  world 
of  dreams — and  to  love,  and  suffer,  and  despair,  and  rejoice, 
within  the  compass  of  a  couple  of  hours.     Yes,  that  is  life !  " 

She  smiled  to  herself  as  she  wondered  what  her  lover  would 
think  of  such  a  life. 

"  I  shall  tell  him  all  aboi.t  it  now  that  it  is  over,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  If  I  had  told  him  before  he  would  have  given  his  veto 
against  the  whole  business,  I  daresay.  But  he  can  hardly  be 
very  angry  when  I  make  a  full  confession  of  my  misdemeanour, 
especially  as  it  was  for  a  charity.  And  I  think  he  will  be  a  Uttle 
proud  of  my  success,  in  spite  of  himself." 

There  had  been  a  dance  at  the  Eancho  after  the  general  public 
had  dispersed,  and  Elizabeth  had  been  the  star  of  the  evening, 
the  object  of  everybody's  outspoken  admiration.  All  the  per- 
formers had  been  praised,  of  course — Mr.  Cinqmars  for  his  life- 
like rendering  of  Triplet,  in  which  personation  he  was  declared 
by  some  enthusiastic  friends  to  nave  rivalled  Webster  and 
Leraaitre ;  Mrs.  Cinqmars  for  her  pathos  and  charming  appear- 
ance as  Mabel  Vane;  Lord  Paulyn  and  the  Major  for  their 
"leveral  merits;  but  no  one  attempted  to  disc^uise  the  fact  that 
Elizabeth's  had  been  the  crowning  triumph.  Enthusiastic  young 
men  told  her  that  she  ought  to  go  on  the  stage,  that  she  would 
take  the  town  by  storm,  and  make  ten  thousand  a  year,  and  so 
on.  Lord  Paulyn  told  her — but  that  was  only  a  repetition  of 
what  he  had  told  her  before. 

"  You  promised  you  would  never  apeak  of  that  subject  again," 
she  said. 

It  was  in  a  waltz,  as  they  were  whirling  round  to  the  Soldaten 
Lieder. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims,  20& 

"  I  shall  speak  of  it  till  my  dying  day,"  he  said.  "  Yes,  if  it 
wakes  you  ever  so  angry.  Eemember  what  I  told  you.  I  Bwore 
an  oath  the  day  I  saw  you  first." 

"  I  will  never  dance  with  you  again." 

"  O  yes,  you  will.  But  I  tell  you  what  you  will  never  do  : 
you  will  never  marry  that  parson  fellow.  It  isn't  possible  that, 
after  having  seen  what  the  world  is,  and  your  own  capacity  for 
shining  in  it,  you  could  lead  such  a  life  as  you'd  have  to  lead 
with  him." 

"  Ah,  that's  because  you  don't  know  how  much  I  love  him," 
the  girl  answered,  with  a  radiant  look.  "  I'd  rather  be  shut  up 
in  a  convent,  like  Heloise,  and  exist  upon  an  occasional  letter 
from  him,  than  have  all  the  pleaeuresof  the  world  without  him." 

"  Bosh  !  "  said  the  Viscount  bluntly.  "A  week  of  the  con- 
vent would  make  3'ou  tell  another  story.  Your  fancy  for  thia 
man  is  one  of  your  capi-ices :  and  Heaven  knows  you  are  about 
the  most  capricious  woman  in  the  world.  You  like  him  because 
every  one  is  opposed  to  your  marrying  hira — because  it's  about 
the  maddest,  most  suicidal  thing  you  could  do." 

"I'm  tired,"  said  Elizabeth;  "take  me  to  a  seat,  please." 

And  having  once  released  herself  from  him,  she  took  care  that 
Lord  Paulyn  should  have  no  farther  speech  with  her  that  night. 

She  thought  of  his  impertinences  this  morning,  as  she  lay  on 
the  sofa  listlessly  fanning  herself;  thought  of  his  obstinate  pur- 
suit of  her;  and  thought — with  some  touch  of  pride  in  her  own 
superiority  to  sordid  considerations — how  very  few  young  women 
in  her  position  would  have  held  out  against  such  a  siege. 

She  was  in  the  midst  of  a  half-stifled  yawn  when  the  pompous 
Sutler  opened  the  door  in  his  grand  sweeping  way,  and  an- 
nounced, "Mr.  Forde." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  heart  beating  violently,  her  tired 
eyes  brightening  with  sudden  joy,  and  seemed  as  if,  forgetful  of 
the  scarcely  departed  butler,  she  would  have  flung  herself  into 
her  lover's  arms. 

Her  lover  !  Alas,  was  that  a  lover  whose  grave  eyes  met  hers 
with  so  cold  a  gaze  ?  She  drew  back,  appalled  by  that  strange 
look. 

"  Malcolm  !  "  she  cried,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  There  is  so  much  the  matter,  Miss  Luttrell,  ihct  I  havt 
hesitated  this  morning  as  to  whether  I  should  write  you  a  brie4 
Dote  of  farewell,  or  come  here  to  bid  you  my  last  good-bye  in 
person.'^ 

The  girl  drew  herself  up  with  her  queenliest  air,      TremWing 
with  a  strange  inward  shiver,  sick  at  heart,  cold  as  death,  she 
,-et  faced  him  resolutely ;  ready  to  see  the  ship  that  carried  all 
er  freight  of  hope  and  gladness  go  down  to  the  bottom  of  the 
occuu  w  iiliout  one  cry  of  despair. 


I 


210  Stra.igers  and  Pilgriim. 

"  It  was  at  least  polite  to  call,"  she  said,  loftily.  "  May  I  aak 
wliat  lias  caused  this  abrupt  change  in  your  plans  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  is  scarcely  needful  for  you  to  inquire.  But  I  have 
no  wish  to  be  otherwise  than  outspoken.  I  was  at  your  friend'a 
house  last  night,  and  saw  you." 

"  I  hope  you  were  not  very  much  shocked  by  what  you  saw." 

Not  for  worlds  would  she  now  have  apologised  for  her  conduct, 
or  explained  that  she  had  intended  to  tell  him  all  about  the 
amateur  performance  at  the  Rancho  when  it  was  over. 

"I  might  have  forgiven  what  I  saw;  though,  if  you  had 
known  my  mind  in  the  least,  you  must  have  known  how  un- 
welcome euch  an  exhibition  would  be  to  me." 

"  Did  I  play  my  part  so  very  badly,  then  ?"  she  asked,  with 
a  Httle  offended  laugh,  womanly  vanity  asserting  itself  even 
in  the  midst  of  her  anguish.  "  Did  I  make  so  great  a  fool  of 
myself?" 

He  took  no  notice  of  the  inquiry,  but  went  on,  with  suppressed 
passion,  standing  before  her,  his  broad  muscular  hand  grasping 
the  back  of  one  of  Mrs.  Chevenix's  fragile  chairs,  which  trem- 
bled under  the  pressure. 

"  I  heard  your  attractions,  your  opportunities,  your  future, 
discussed  very  freely  between  the  acts  of  your  comedy.  I  heard 
of  your  engagement  to  Lord  Paulyn." 

"My  engagement  to  Lord  Paulyn  !"  she  cried,  staring  at  him 
with  widening  eyes. 

"  Yes ;  a  fact  which  I  found  confirmed  this  morning  by  one  ol 
the  newspapers  in  the  coffee-room  where  I  breakfasted." 

He  gave  her  a  copy  of  the  Court  Journal. 

"  You  will  see  your  name  there  among  the  announcements  of 
impending  marriages  in  high  life.     '  A  marriage  is  on  the  ta2n3 
between  Lord  Paulyn  and  Miss  Luttrell,  daughter  of  the  Rev 
Wilmot  Luttrell,  vicar  of  Hawleigh.'     It  was  rather  hard  that 
you  should  allow  the  court  newsman  to  be  wiser  than  I." 

Eager  words  of  denial  trembled  on  her  lips,  but,  before  they 
could  be  spoken,  pride  silenced  her.  What !  he  came  to  her  il 
this  ruthless  fashion,  came  with  his  course  resolved,  and  resigned 
her  as  coolly  as  if  she  were  a  prize  not  worth  contesting. 

"You  have  come  here  to — to  give  me  up,"  she  said. 

"  I  have  resigned  myself  to  circumstances.  But  would  it  not 
have  been  as  well  to  be  off  with  the  old  love  before  you  were  on 
with  the  new?  It  is  a  matter  of  little  consequence,  i:)erhap8, 
to  the  new  love;  but  it  is  not  quite  fair  to  the  old." 

"  You  have  not  taken  the  trouble  to  think  that  this  para- 
^aph  might  be  a  newsmonger's  unlicensed  gossip,  as  meaning- 
less as  the  talk  you  may  have  heard  last  night." 

He  looked  at  her  earnestly.  No,  there  was  neither  penitence 
nor  love  in  that  cold  beautiful  face,  only  pride  and  anger.     Waa 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  211 

it  tlie  same  face  that  had  looked  at  him  passionately  in  the 
moonlight  four  months  ago  ?  Was  this  the  woman  who  had 
almost  oflfered  him  her  love  ? 

"  Even  if  this  announcement  is  somewhat  premature,  I  have 
learned  enough  to  know  that  it  is  only  premature,  that  it  must 
come  in  due  course,  unless,  indeed,  you  are  more  reckless  of  your 
reputation  than  I  could  have  supposed  it  possible  for  your 
father's  daughter  to  be.  Your  name  has  been  too  long  asso- 
ciated with  Lord  Paulyn's  to  admit  of  any  termination  but  one 
to  your  acquaintance.  For  your  own  sake,  1  recommend  you  to 
marry  him." 

"  I  am  hardly  likely  to  despise  such  generous  advice.  If  you 
had  ever  loved  me,"  with  a  sudden  burst  of  passion,  "you  could 
not  talk  to  me  like  this." 

"I  have  loved  you  well  enough  to  falsify  the  whole  scheme  of 
my  Ufe,  to  sacrifice  the  dearest  wish  of  my  mind " 

"  But  it  was  such  an  unwilHng  sacrifice,"  exclaimed  Eliza- 
beth, bitterly.     "  God  forbid  that  I  should  profit  by  it !'[ 

"  God  only  knows  how  much  I  have  loved  you,  Elizabeth ; 
for  He  alone  knows  the  strength  of  my  temptation,  and  the 
weakness  of  my  soul.  But  you — you  were  only  playing  at  love; 
and  the  romantic  ardour  which  you  assumed,  with  so  fatal  a 
charm,  was  so  factitious  a  sentiment  that  it  could  not  weigh 
for  a  single  hour  against  your  love  of  pleasure,  or  stand  between 
your  ambition  and  its  object  for  a  single  day.  Let  it  pass,  with 
that  dead  past  to  which  it  belongs.  The  dream  was  sweet  enough 
while  it  lasted ;  but  it  was  only  a  dream,  and  it  has  gone  '  like 
the  chaflF  of  the  summer  threshing-floors.'  " 

She  stood  like  a  statue,  hardening  her  heart  against  him. 
What,  when  all  the  world — the  world  as  represented  by  Lord 
Paulyn  and  society  at  the  Rancho — was  at  her  feet,  did  he  cast 
her  off  so  lightly,  without  allowing  her  any  fair  opportunity 
of  justifying  herself?  For  it  was  hardly  to  be  supposed  that 
she  would  kiss  the  dust  beneath  liis  feet,  as  it  were,  confessing 
oer  sins,  and  supplicating  his  pardon. 

What  had  she  done  ?  Only  enjoyed  her  life  for  this  one  brief 
summer-time,  holding  his  image  in  her  heart  of  hearts  all  the 
while.  Yes,  in  the  very  whirlpool  of  pleasure  looking  upward 
at  him,  as  at  a  star  seen  from  the  depths  of  a  storm-darkened 
sea.  And  she  had  refused  Park -lane,  Cowee,  Ashcombe,  and 
two  more  country-seats  for  his  sake. 

Should  she  tell  him  of  her  rejection  of  Lord  Paulyn — tell  him 
that  one  incontrovertible  fact  which  must  reinstate  her  at  once 
and  for  ever  in  his  esteem  ?  What,  tell  him  this  when  he  spoke 
of  his  love  as  a  thing  of  the  past,  a  dream  that  he  had  dreamed 
and  done  with,  a  snare  which  he  had  happily  escaped,  regaining 
his  liberty  of  election,  his  freedom  for  that  grander  life  im  which 


212  Strangers  and  Filgrims. 

human  love  had  no  part  ?  What,  sue  again  for  his  love,  lay 
bare  her  passionate  heart,  again  overstep  the  boundary  line  of 
womanly  modesty,  remind  him  how  she  had  been  the  first  to 
love,  almost  the  first  to  declare  her  love?  Had  he  not  this 
moment  reminded  her,  inferentially,  of  that  most  humiliating 
factP 

Thus  argued  pride,  and  sealed  her  lips.  Hope  spoke  still 
louder.  Let  him  talk  as  he  might,  he  loved  her,  and  could  no 
more  live  without  her  than  she  could  exist,  a  reasonable  crea- 
ture, without  him.  Let  him  leave  her ;  let  him  renounce  her. 
He  would  come  back  again,  would  be  at  her  feet  pleading  for  for- 
giveness, himself  the  acknowledged  sinner,  his  the  humiliation. 
In  that  brief  happy  courtship,  in  those  twiUt  rambles  on  the 
outskirts  of  Hawleigh,  when  for  one  delicious  hour  in  the  day 
they  had  been  all  the  world  to  each  other,  Malcolm  had  laid  hia 
heart  bare  before  her,  had  confessed  all  the  anguish  that  his 
efforts  not  to  adore  her  had  cost  him. 

"  I  have  heard  of  men  making  as  strong  a  stand  against  in- 
fidelity," he  said ;  "  but  I  doubt  if  any  man  ever  before  fought 
so  hard  a  fight  against  a  sinless  love." 

"  I  must  be  very  horrid,"  the  girl  answered,  in  her  frivolous 
way,  "  or  you  would  scarcely  have  taken  so  much  trouble  to  shut 
the  door  of  your  heart  against  me." 

"  You  are  all  that  is  lovely  and  adorable,"  he  said;  "but  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  be  a  Francis  Xavier  on  a  small  scale, 
and  you  came  between  me  and  my  cherished  dreams." 

She  remembered  these  things  to-day,  as  she  stood,  with  locked 
lips  and  cold  scornful  eyes,  confronting  him,  resolved  that  from 
iiim  alone  should  come  the  first  attempt  at  reconciliation. 

'•  Having  renounced  me,"  she  said  at  last,  after  a  pause,  in 
which  he  had  waited.  Heaven  knows  ^vlth  what  passionate  eager- 
ness, for  any  denial  or  supplication  from  her,  "in  so  deliberate 
and  decisive  a  manner,  I  conclude  you  have  nothing  more  to  say 
— except,  indeed,  to  tell  me  to  what  address  I  shall  send  your 
letters  and  presents." 

This  home-thrust  she  fancied  must  needs  bring  him  to  his 
senses. 

"Destroy  them  all!"  he  cried  savagely.  "They  are  the 
memorials  of  a  most  miserable  infatuation." 

"  As  you  please,"  she  answered  coolly,  preserving  that  out- 
ward semblance  of  an  unshaken  spirit  to  the  last,  acting  her 
Eart  of  indifference  and  disdain  far  better  than  he  played  his. 
[ad  she  not  Lor  experience  of  last  night  to  help  her  ?  This 
morning's  interview  was  no  whit  the  less  a  scenic  display — an 
actress's  representation  of  supreme  calm,  with  the  strong  tide  of 
a  woman's  passion  swelUng  and  beating  in  her  stormy  breast  all 
the  while. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  213 

"  Then  there  is  nothing  more,"  he  said  quietly,  but  with  the 
quietness  of  suppi'essed  passion,  and  with  no  attempt  to  conceal 
bis  emotion,  only  trying  to  carry  himself  manfully  in  spite 
thereof,  "  except  for  us  to  say  good-bye.  Let  it  be  a  friendly 
farewell,  Elizabeth,  for  it  is  likely  to  be  a  long  one." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  That  was  hardly  the  tone  of  a 
man  who  meant  to  retrace  Lis  steps — to  leave  her  in  anger 
to-day,  only  to  come  back  to  her  repentant  to-morrow.  No, 
there  was  no  room  to  doubt  his  earnestness.  He  did  mean  thin 
farewell  to  be  irrevocable — this  parting  for  ever  and  ever.  It 
was  only  when  he  had  turned  his  back  upon  her — when  the  door 
was  shut  between  them — that  he  would  discover  how  impossible 
it  was  for  them  to  live  apart. 

"  There  must  be  some  reciprocity  in  these  things,"  she 
thought;  "he  could  not  be  so  much  to  me— a  part  of  my 
very  life— and  I  nothing  to  him.     He  must  come  back  to  me." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  gave  him  hers,  and  suffered  it 
to  remain  helpless,  unresisting,  in  his  strong  grasp,  while  he 
spoke  to  her. 

"  Elizabeth,"  he  said,  "  there  are  some  things  very  hard  to 
forgive.  It  is  hard  for  me  to  forgive  you  the  delusive  joys  of  the 
last  few  months — the  deep  delight  I  felt  that  March  night  when 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life  passionate  love  had  full  mastery 
over  my  heart,  and  all  the  world  seemed  to  begin  and.  end  in 
you.  It  is  bitter  to  look  back  upon  that  hour  to-day,  an  1  know 
that  I  was  the  veriest  slave  of  a  delusion — the  blindest  fool  of  a 
woman's  idle  fancy.  But  I  did  not  come  here  to  reproach  you. 
The  dream  is  past.  You  might  have  spared  me  the  sharpness 
of  this  sudden  waking ;  but  even  that  I  will  try  to  forgive  you. 
Good-bye." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sad  strange  smile,  the  firm  lips  set  in 
their  old  resolute  curve,  but  with  an  unwonted  tenderness  in  the 
earnest  eyes. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  repeated;  "let  me  kiss  you  once  more  at 
parting,  even  if  I  kiss  Lord  Paulyn's  plighted  wife." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  she  coldly  submissive,  with  an 
almost  apathetic  air.  Was  it  not  time  for  her  to  sj^eak,  to 
'ustify  herself,  to  declare  that  there  was  no  stranger  in  all  that 
vide  city  farther  from  her  heart  than  Reginald  Paulyn  ?  No, 
answered  pride;  it  would  be  time  enough  to  enlighten  him 
)fhen  he  came  back  to  her  to-morrow  and  sued  for  pardon.  She 
f/ould  not  defend  herself — she  would  not  stoop  to  be  forgiven. 
pad  she  not  humiliated  herself  too  much  already  for  his  sake, 
when  she  gave  him  the  love  he  had  never  asked  ? 

"This  time  I  will  hold  my  own  agamst  him,"  she  thought; 

'I  will  not  be  for  ever  humbling  myself  in  the  very  dust  at  his 

feet.  From  the  becinninpf  I  have  loved  hiin  with  too  slavish  a  love." 


214  Strangers  and  Pilgrimt. 

He  touched  her  forehead  with  his  lips — the  passionless  kiss  of 
forgiveness  for  a  great  wrong.  It  was  the  ruin  of  his  air-built 
castle  of  earthly  hope  for  which  he  pardoned  her  in  that  last 
kiss.  Before  him,  wide  and  far-reaching  as  the  summer  sc^a 
that  he  had  looked  upon  a  few  days  ago  from  a  grassy  peak 
among  the  Pentlands,  stretched  a  nobler  prospect,  a  grander 
future  than  her  love  could  ever  have  helped  him  to  win,  and 
hopes  that  were  not  earth-bound.  Surely  he  was  resigning  very 
little  in  this  surrender  of  the  one  woman  he  had  loved  with  a 
love  beyond  control.  And  yet  the  parting  tore  his  heart-strings 
as  they  had  never  been  strained  before — not  even  when  he  stood 
by  the  death-bed  of  Alice  Fraser. 

"  I  am  not  destined  to  be  fortunate  in  my  loves,"  he  said 
bitterly,  the  memory  of  that  older  anguish  mingling  curiously 
with  his  pain  to-day  ;  "  let  me  try  to  hope  that  I  have  a  better 
destiny  than  mere  earthly  happiness." 

The  qualifying  adjective  jarred  a  little  upon  her  ear.  He  had 
always  set  her  so  low;  he  had  always  loved  her  grudgingly, 
with  a  reservation  of  his  better  self,  giving  her  only  half  his 
heart  at  best. 

"  You  have  been  a  great  deal  too  good  for  me,"  she  said  with 
exceeding  bitterness,  "  and  you  have  taken  care  '-.^t  I  should 
feel  your  superiority.  It  is  not  given  to  every  woman  to  be  like 
your  first  love — 'simply  perfect;'  and  I  have  some  reason  to  be 
grateful  to  those  worldly-minded  people  who  are  willing  to 
accept  me  for  what  I  am." 

"  Lord  Paulyn,  for  instance,"  said  Mr.  Forde,  becoming  very 
worldly-minded  in  a  momen1;(  his  eyes  lighting  up  angrily — ■ 
"  Lord  Paulyn,  who  has  made  his  adoration  of  you  a  fact 
nok)rious  to  all  the  world." 

"  It  is  something  to  have  one  constant  admirer.  Lord  Paulyn 
is  at  least  not  ashamed  of  admiring  me.  He  does  not  fight 
against  the  sentiment,  as  a  weakness  unworthy  of  his  manhood, 
"^ie  does  not  feel  himself  degraded  by  his  attachment." 

This  sounded  like  a  direct  avowal  of  the  Viscount's  affection, 
and  of  her  acceptance  thereof;  surely  no  woman  would  speak 
in  this  manner  except  of  an  accepted  lover.  If  Malcolm  Forde 
had  fondly  hoped  for  denial — for  a  tardy  attempt  at  justifica- 
tion—  this  unqualified  admission  was  sufiicient  to  enlighten 
him. 

"  I  did  not  come  here  to  bandy  words.  Miss  Luttrell,"  he  said, 
drawing  himself  up  stifily ;  "  but  I  will  not  leave  you  without 
repeating  a  warning  I  gave  you  once  before.  If  you  set  any 
value  upon  your  peace  on  earth,  or  your  fitness  for  heaven, 
since  a  woman  is  in  some  measure  the  slave  of  her  surround- 
ings, do  not  marry  Lord  Paulyn.  I  am  not  apt  to  go  in  the  way 
of  scandal,  but  I  have  heard  enough  of  his  career  to  justify  me 


Strangers  and  Filgrirm.  215 

in  declaring  that  union  with  him  would  be  the  quickest  road 
that  you  could  take  to  life-long  misery." 

"  Yet  you  advised  me  just  now  to  marry  hira.  Eather  incon- 
Bistent,  is  it  not?" 

"  Anger  is  always  inconsistent.  It  was  passion  that  spoke 
then,  it  is  reason  that  pleads  now.  Do  not  let  foolish  friends 
persuade  you  to  your  ruin,  Miss  Luttrell.  Your  beauty  may 
win  as  good  a  position  as  Lord  Paulyn  can  give  you  from  a 
much  better  man,  if  you  are  patient,  and  wait  a  little  while  for 
that  brilliant  establishment  which  you  have  no  doubt  been 
taught  to  consider  the  summit  of  earthly  felicity." 

"  Your  advice  is  as  insulting  as — as  every  word  you  have  said 
this  morning,"  cried  Elizabeth,  in  a  burst  of  passion. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said  with  extreme  gentleness.  "  I  did 
•wrong  to  speak  bitterly.  It  is  not  your  fault  if  you  have  been 
schooled  by  worldly  teachers.  Believe  me,  it  was  of  your  own 
welfare,  your  future  on  this  earth  and  in  the  world  beyond,  I 
was  thinking.  0  Elizabeth,  I  know  that  it  is  in  your  power  to 
become  a  good  woman ;  that  it  is  in  your  nature  to  be  pure  and 
noble.  It  is  only  your  surroundings  that  are  false.  Let  my 
last  memory  of  you  be  one  of  peace  and  friendship,  and  let  your 
memory  of  me  be  of  one  who  once  dearly  loved  you,  and  to  the 
last  had  your  happiness  at  heart." 

His  softened  tone  set  her  heart  beating  with  a  new  hope. 
That  phrase,  "  once  loved  you,"  froze  it  again,  and  held  her  silent 
as  death.  A  dull  blank  shadow  crept  over  her  face ;  she  stood 
looking  at  the  ground  only  just  able  to  stand.  When  she  looked 
up,  with  a  blmding  mist  before  her  eyes,  he  was  gone.  And  dimly 
perceiving  the  empty  space  which  he  had  filled,  and  feeling  in  a 
momont  that  he  had  vanished  out  of  her  life  for  ever,  the  numb- 
ness of  despair  came  over  her,  and  she  fell  senseless  across  the 
spot  where  he  had  stood. 


I 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

"  The  good  explore, 
For  peace,  those  realms  where  guilt  can  never  soar; 
The  proud,  the  wayward,  who  have  fix'd  below 
Their  joy,  and  find  this  earth  enough  for  woe, 
Lose  in  that  one  their  all — perchance  a  mite— 
But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all  delight  ? " 

Mrs.  Chevenix,  descending  to  her  drawinfj-room  in  state, — after 
the  restorative  effects  of  a  leisurely  breakfast  in  bed,  and  a 
gradual  and  easy  toilet;  her  dress  prepared  for  the  leception  of 


216  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

jnorniDg  callers;  her  complexion  refreshed  with  violet  powder,— 
was  horrified  at  finding  her  niece  prostrate  on  the  threshold  oi 
the  back  drawing-room.  But  when  Mrs.  Chevenix  and  her  maid 
had  administered  the  usual  remedies  with  a  good  deal  of  rushing 
to  and  fro,  aud  the  girl's  haggard  eyes  reopened  on  the  outer 
world,  her  first  care  was  to  assure  them  that  the  fainting  fit  was 
of  no  importance.  She  had  been  a  little  over-fatigued  last  night, 
that  was  all. 

"I^can't  imagine  what  made  you  get  up  so  preposterously 
early  this  morning,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix  rather  impa- 
tiently, "  instead  of  trying  to  recruit  your  strength,  as  any 
sensible  young  woman  would  have  done.  How  can  you  expect 
your  complexion  to  last,  if  you  go  on  in  this  way  ?  You  are  as 
dark  under  the  eyes  as  if  you  had  not  slept  an  hour  for  the  last 
fortnight.  Good  looks  are  very  well  in  their  way,  Elizabeth  ; 
but  they  won't  stand  such  treatment  as  this.  Go  up  to  your 
room  and  lie  down  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  let  Mason  give  you 
one  of  my  globules." 

Elizabeth  shrugged  her  shoulders  impatiently;  globules  for 
the  cure  of  her  disease !  Infinitesimal  doses  for  the  healing  of 
that  great  agony !  How  foolish  a  thing  this  second  childishness 
of  comfortable  emotionless  middle  age  is ;  this  fools'  paradise  of 
pet  poodles  and  homoeopathy ;  this  empty  senile  existence,  which 
remains  for  some  men  and  women,  when  feeling  and  passion  are 
dead  and  gone ! 

"You  know  I  don't  beheve  in  homoeopathic  medicine,"  she 
said,  turning  her  tired  head  aside  upon  the  pillow  of  the  sofa 
where  they  had  laid  her,  with  a  look  of  utter  weariness  and  dis- 
gust ;  "  or  in  any  other  medicines  indeed.  I  was  never  ill  in  my 
life,  that  I  can  remember,  and  I  am  not  ill  now.  Let  me  lie 
here ;  I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  get  ip  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  A  natural  consequence  of  over-excitement,"  said  Mrs. 
Chevenix.  "  Shut  the  folding-doors.  Mason,  in  case  any  one 
should  call ;  and  bring  Miss  Luttrell  the  couvre-pied  from  the 
Bofa  in  my  bedroom.  You  shall  have  a  mutton-chop  and  a  pint 
of  Moselle  for  your  luncheon,  Lizzie ;  and  if  Lord  Paulyn  should 
come  before  luncheon,  I  shan't  allow  him  to  see  you." 

"  Lord  Paulyn !  "  cried  the  girl,  with  a  shiver,  "  let  me 
never  hear  his  name  again  as  long  as  I  live.  He  has  broken 
my  heart." 

Mrs.  Chevenix  received  this  wild  assertion  with  the  stony  stare 
of  bewilderment. 

"  My  dearest  Lizzie,  what  are  you  dreaming  of?  "  she  ex- 
claimed ;  pleased  to  think  that  Mason  had  departed,  in  quest  of 
Ihe  couvre-pied,  before  this  strange  utterance.  "  I  am  sure  that 
poor  young  man  is  perfectly  devoted  to  you." 

"  Who  w^its  his  devotion  P  "  cried   Elizabeth   impatiently. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  -VI 

"Has  he  ever  been  anything  Lut  a  torment  tc  me?  0,  yes,  I 
know  what  you  are  going  to  say,"  she  exclaimed,  interrupting 
aunt  Chevenix's  half-uttered  exclamation.  "  In  that  case,  why 
did  I  encourage  his  attentions  P  If  I  did  so,  I  hardly  knew  that 
1  was  encouraging  them.  It  was  rather  pleasant  to  feel  that 
other  people  thought  a  great  deal  more  of  me  on  account  of  his 
Billy  infatuation  ;  and  he  is  not  the  kind  of  man  who  would  ever 
be  much  tlie  worse  for  any  disappointment  in  that  way.  It  would 
be  too  preposterous  to  suppose  that  he  has  a  heart  capable  of 
feeling  deeply  about  anything  except  his  racehorses." 

This  was  said  half  listlessly,  yet  with  an  air  which  implied 
that  the  speaker  was  trying  to  justify  herself,  and  was  half 
doubtful  of  the  force  of  her  own  reasoning. 

"  No  heart!  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Chevenix  indignantly,  "why,  I 
do  beheve  that  young  man  is  all  heart.  I'm  sure  the  warmth  of 
his  attachment  to  you  is  a  very  strong  proof  of  it.  _  ISTo  heart, 
indeed.  If  you  had  spoken  of  your  tall  curate  now,  with  his  rigid 
puritanical  expression  of  countenance  (just  the  look  of  an  iconu — 
what's  his  name — a  man  who  would  chop  the  noses  off  the  saints 
on  the  carved  doors  of  a  cathedral — I  should  think),  if  you  had 
talked  of  his  having  no  heart,  I  might  have  agreed  with  you." 

"Aunt  Chevenix,"  said  Elizabeth,  starting  up  from  her  pillow, 
"if  you  ever  dare  to  say  one  word  in  disparagement  of  Malcolm. 
Forde,  I  shall  hate  you.  I  am  almost  tempted  to  hate  you  as  it 
is,  for  being  at  the  root  of  all  my  misery.  Don't  put  your  finger 
upon  an  open  wound.  You  have  no  occasion  to  run  him  down  now; 
he  is  nothing  more  to  me.  He  came  here  this  morning,  not  an 
hour  ago,  to  give  me  up.  I  meant  to  tell  you  nothing  about 
this ;  but  you  would  have  found  it  out  somehow,  I  daresay,  be- 
fore long,  and  it  is  just  as  well  you  should  know  at  once.  He 
came  to  give  me  up,  of  his  own  accord.  Our  dream  of  happiness 
was  very  short,  was  it  not?  and  he  has  ended  it  of  his  own  free 
will.  It  would  hardly  have  seemed  so  strange  if  I  had  been 
tempted  away  from  him;  for,  so  far  as  the  otter  of  a  brilliant 
position  in  this  world  can  tempt  a  penniless  parson's  daughter, 
I  have  been  tempted.  Yet  Heaven  knows  my  faith  never 
wavered  for  a  moment.  But  he  had  heard  something  about 
Lord  Paulyn  and  me;  had  seen  some  silly  paragraph  in  a,  iiews- 
l)aper,  and  came  to  give  me  up.  Even  if  1  had  been  inclined  to 
exculpate  myself,  he  gave  me  no  opportunity  ;  he  would  hardly 
lot  me  speak.  And  it  was  not  for  me  to  suppUcate  for  a  hearing ; 
so  I  let  him  go,  without  an  effort  to  detain  him,  almost  as  coldly 
as  he  renounced  me." 

"  And  you  acted  like  a  woman  of  spirit  in  so  doing,"  cried  Mrs. 
Chevenix  triumphantly;  indeed,  nothing  could  be  more  delightful 
to  her  than  this  intelligence.  "  Sue  to  him,  indeed— exculpate 
yourself  to  him ! — that  would  be  rather  too  much.     I  congratu- 


218  Strangers  and  Pilgrintg. 

late  you,  my  dear  girl,  upon  having  released  yourself  from  2 
lost  unfortunate  and  mistaken  engagement." 

"  It  may  have  been  all  that,"  said  the  girl,  shrinking  from  her 
aunt's  soothing  caress  with  a  shiver ;  "  but,  unluckily,  I  loved 
the  man.  '  I  loved  you  once,' "  she  repeated  dreamily,  going 
back  to  her  interview  with  Malcolm  Forde.  "  0  God,  that  I 
should  live  to  hear  him  say  that !  '  I  loved  you  once.'  " 

"  My  dearest  child,  it  was  not  in  human  nature  that  such  an  en- 
gagement as  that  could  endure.  You,  handsome,  accomplished, 
admired,  with  peculiar  opportunities  of  social  success  ;  "  this  with 
a  swelling  pride  in  that  dainty  little  establishment  in  Eaton-place- 
south,  and  in  herself  as  the  sole  source  of  these  opportunities.  "He, 
an  obscure  provincial  curate ;  a  man  who,  entering  the  Church 
somewhat  late  in  life,  has  actually  started  at  a  disadvantage;  not 
even  a  particularly  agreeable  or  good-looking  person ;  and  I  feel 
sure  that  when  reason  and  experience  have  come  to  your  aid, 
Lizzie,  you  will  confess  the  baselessness  of  your  infatuation." 

"  When  experience  has  made  me  a  hard,  worldly  old  woman, 
like  Lady  Paulyn,  I  may  begin  to  see  things  in  that 
hght,"  said  Elizabeth,  bitterly ;  "  but  please  don't  talk  to  me 
any  more  about  Mr.  Forde.  Respect  his  name  as  you  would  if 
he  were  dead.  As  if  he  were  dead,"  she  repeated.  "  Could  I  be 
any  more  unhappy  if  he  were  lying  in  his  grave  ?  " 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  that  I  shall  talk  of  the  man,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Chevenix  indignantly.  "  I  am  too  much  disgusted  with 
his  conduct.  To  choose  the  very  time  in  which  his  prospects  be- 
gan to  improve — as  I  conclude  this  uncle  has  ^ft,  him  something 
— to  throw  you  off !  However,  1  thank  Pro'7iuence  that  your 
future  may  be  fifty  times  more  briUiant  than  any  position  which 
he  could  offer  you  at  his  best !  " 

Elizabeth  said  nothing;  but  sat  with  fixed  eyes  staring  at 
empty  space.  Could  it  be  that  he  was  indeed  dead  to  her ;  that 
he  would  not  come  back  ?  0,  surely  not.  That  parting  could 
not  be  final.  It  was  not  possible  that  he  could  pluck  her  from 
bis  heart  so  easily ;  she,  who  on  her  side  felt  as  "if  she  were 
verily  a  part  of  himself,  a  mere  subordinate  being  that  could 
have  no  existence  without  him.  She  felt  all  this  in  spite  of 
her  season  of  independent  pleasure  ;  in  spite  of  these  last  few 
months  in  which  he  had  had  no  share  in  h«r  life.  Her  lowot 
instincts  had  been  gratified  by  those  vanities  and  dissipations  ; 
the  nobler  half  of  her  being  belonged  to  him,  and  held  itself 
apart  from  all  the  world  besides. 

"  He  will  come  back  to  me,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  If  I  had 
not  thought  that,  I  could  never  have  let  him  go.  I  should  have 
grovelled  at  his  feet,  thrown  myself  between  him  and  the  door, 
clung  to  him  as  a  shipwrecked  sailor  clings  to  a  floating  spar, 
rather  than  let  him  leave  me  for  ever." 


Strangers  and  Filyrims.  219 

Buoyed  up  by  this  belief,  Elizabeth  supported  her  esislence 
with  a  tolerable  show  of  calm ;  was  even  able  to  go  to  a  dinner- 
party that  evening— a  dinner  in  Montague-square — at  which 
there  was  no  fear  of  meeting  Lord  Paulyn ;  looked  very  lovely, 
in  spite  of  her  pallor,  if  not  her  best;  sang,  and  talked,  and 
laughed,  with  that  low  melodious  lau^^h  which  was  one  of  her 
fascinations ;  and  altogether  delighted  Mrs.  Chevenix,  who  had 
expected  to  see  her  niece  stricken  down  utterly  for  a  day  or  two, 

"  He  will  come  back  to  me,"  the  girl  was  saying  to  herself  all 
the  evening.  "  There  will  be  a  letter,  perhaps,  waiting  for  mo 
"hen  we  go  home." 

All  that  day  she  had  been  expecting  his  return,  or  at  the  least 
Bome  tender  remorseful  letter ;  but  the  day  had  passed  and  he 
had  made  no  sign.  Then  she  told  herself  that  his  anger  could 
hardly  cool  all  at  once ;  he  had  been  very  angry,  no  doubt, 
though  he  had  borne  himself  like  a  rock.  Not  aU  at  once  could 
he  discover  how  essential  she  was  to  his  life. 

How  eager  she  was  for  the  re+um  to  Eaton-place !  how  more 
tnan  usually  wearisome  seemed  that  endless  small  talk  about 
flower-shows  and  picture  galleries,  and  opera  singers  and  classical 
music  !  She  fancied  how  the  letter  would  be  handed  to  her  by 
her  aunt's  serving-man  ;  the  dear  letter  with  its  superscription 
in  that  noble  hand.  How  she  woidd  snatch  it  from  the  salver, 
and  run  up  to  her  own  room  to  devour  its  contents  in  happy 
solitude  !     She  could  almost  fancy  hew  it  would  begin  : 

"  My  dearest, — Forgive  me  ! " 

They  were  at  home  at  last ;  but  the  serving-man,  who  looked 
sleepy,  brought  her  no  salver. 

"  Any  letters,  Plomber?  "  she  asked,  with  well-assumed  care- 
lessness. 

"No,  ma'am." 

"  Did  you  expect  anythingparticnlar?"  Mrs.  Chevenix  inquired. 

"  No ;  only  I  thought  there  might  have  been  one  from — from 
Gerty  or  Di." 

"  What  can  people  at  Hawleigh  have  to  write  about P  "  said 
her  aunt  contemptuously. 

The  girl  went  straight  to  her  room,  heart-sick. 

"  He  will  come  back  to  me  to-morrow,"  she  said. 

To-morrow  came,  but  brought  no  tidings  of  i\ralcolm  Forde — 
a  dreary  day,  the  longest  Elizabeth  ever  remembered  in  her  life 
— which  had  contained  many  days  that  were  dull  enough  and 
Hank  enough  in  all  conscience. 

Lord  Paulyn  came,  as  he  had  come  on  the  previous  afternoon; 
but  he  was  not  allowed  to  see  Miss  Luttrell.  She  was  ill,  Mrs. 
Chevenix  t-old  him,  really  prostrate;  such  a  sensitive  nature, 
dear  Lord  Paulyn,  so  much  imagination.  The  excitement  of  that 


220  tSlrangers  and  FiJt/riTne. 

play  was  too  much  for  her.      I'm  afraid  I  must  take  her  dowE 
to  Brighton  for  change  of  air." 

The  Viscount  departed  unwillingly,  displeased  at  this  interrup- 
tion of  his  smaller  pleasures,  the  trifling  talk  and  tea-drinking, 
in  the  hour  he  had  been  wont  of  old  to  devote  to  more  masculine 
diversions — horsey  talk  at  a  horsey  club,  or  a  lounge  at 
Tattersall's. 

But  although  he  was  thus  banished  by  the  diplomatic  matron, 
Elizabeth  was  not  really  ill.  She  was  only  white  and  wan,  with 
blank  tearless  eyes,  the  living  image  of  despair.  Not  in  a  con- 
dition to  be  seen  by  a  young  nobleman  who  aspired  to  decorate 
her  brow  with  a  coronet.  A  lifeless  creature,  whose  tenure  of 
happiness  hung  on  a  thread.  Would  he  come  or  write  ?  Would 
he  forgive  her,  and  take  her  back  to  his  heart  P 

"  Why  did  I  ever  come  to  London  ?  "  she  asked  herself,  with 
a  curious  wonder  at  her  own  folly. 

The  cup  of  pleasure,  being  drained  to  the  dregs,  had  left  an 
after  flavour  of  exceeding  bitterness.  She  looked  back  to  those 
Bweet  peaceful  days  at  Hawleigh,  to  that  spring-time  of  life  and 
love,  when  her  heart  had  been  exultant  with  a  girl's  triumph  in 
her  first  important  conquest,  and  remembered  how  averse  Mal- 
colm Forde  had  been  to  the  idea  of  this  visit.  And  for  such 
empty  trifles,  for  the  vapid  pleasures  of  a  London  season,  a  few 
balls,  a  few  picnics — at  best  only  the  old  Hawleigh  dances  and 
picnics  upon  a  larger  scale — she  had  jeopardised  that  dearest 
treasure ;  for  so  childish  a  vanity  as  seeing  this  unknown  world 
of  good  society,  she  had  imperilled  and  lost  the  confidence  of 
her  lover ! 

Other  to-morrows  came  and  faded,  and  still  there  was  no  sign 
of  relenting  on  the  part  of  Malcolm  Forde.  And  still  the  girl's 
white  face  and  absent  manner  forbade  the  admission  of  visitors. 
Lord  Paulyn  was  impatient,  sullen  even,  with  a  sense  of  injury, 
as  if  he  had  Ijeen  an  accepted  lover  unduly  kept  at  bay.  Upon 
one  particular  afternoon,  feeling  his  disappointment  acutely — he 
had  brought  a  fresh  bouquet  "jf  stephanotis  and  maiden-hair 
every  afternoon,  waxen  blossoms  which  had  bloomed  and  lan» 
guished  unheeded  by  Elizabeth's  dull  eyes — he  gave  free  utter- 
ance to  his  vexation,  and  in  a  communicative  mood  poured 
his  griefs  into  the  maternal  bosom  of  Mrs.  Chevenix.  It  was 
uncommonly  hard,  he  urged,  that  after  all  he  had  put  np  with 
and  gone  through — the  amoimt  of  nonsense  he  had  stood  from 
Miss  Luttrell — she  should  throw  him  over  the  bridge  for  a  par- 
eon  fellow  like  that  man  at  Hawleigh. 

"  My  dear  Lord  Paulyn,"  replied  Mrs.  Chevenix,  with  a  con- 
fidential air,  bending  her  head  a  little  nearer  to  tlie  young  man, 
as  he  sat  a  cheval  on  his  favourite  fovff.  and  by  that  gracious 
movement  besprinkling  him  lightly  with  poudre  de  Marechale, 


Strangers  and  I*ilg7'ms.  231 

*•  that  engagement  is  one  wliicli  I  have  a  secret  convictiou  cannot 
be  enduring.  If  I  had  not  entertained  such  an  opinion,  1  should 
never  have  encouraged — I  will  go  farther,  and  say  I  would  never 
have  sanctioned — your  frequent  presence  in  this  house.  No,'' 
this  with  a  lofty  air,  as  of  sublimest  virtue,  "  I  have  too  much 
regard  for  what  is  duo  to  myself,  as  well  as  to  you.  I  am  no 
Blave  of  rank  or  wealth.  If  I  did  not  think  that  you  were  emi- 
nently suited  to  my  niece,  and  Mr.  Forde  as  eminently  unsuited 
to  her,  I  should  not  have  lent  my  support  to  an  intimacy  which 
could  have  but  one  result.  Elizabeth  is  a  girl  whom  to  know  is 
to  love." 

"  I'm  not  sure  about  that,"  said  the  young  man,  not  deeply 
moved  by  this  solemn  address.  "  She's  rather  a  queer  girl,  take 
her  altogether ;  fools  a  man  to  the  top  of  his  bent  one  day,  and 
snnbs  him  the  next ;  gives  herself  no  end  of  airs,  as  if  the  world 
and  everybody  in  it  hiid  been  made  to  order  for  her.  But  she's 
the  handsomest  woman  in  London,  and  she  has  a  peculiar  way 
of  her  own  that  no  man  could  stapd  against.  I  hadn't  known 
her  a  fortnight  before  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  marry  her.  But 
I  didn't  go  to  work  rashly  for  all  that ;  I  left  Hawleigh  without 
committing  myself;  gave  myself  time  to  find  out  if  it  was  a 
iJerious  case  with  me." 

Mrs.  Chevenix  gave  a  little  impatient  sigh. 

"  If  you  had  been  a  shade  less  cautious,  and  had  spoken  oilt 
at  once,  you  might  have  prevented  this  foolish  affair  with  Mr. 
Forde,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  but  I  pride  myself  upon  knowing  what  I'm  about — not 
putting  my  horse  at  a  fence  unless  I  know  what's  on  the  other 
side  of  it.  And  the  worst  of  this  Forde  business  is,  that  she's 
desperately  fond  of  him,  has  owned  as  much  to  me,  and  gloried 
in  owning  it." 

"A  girl's  delusion,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix  soothingly;  "the 
romance  of  an  hour,  which  wiU  vanish  like  a  summer  cloud  when 
the  charm  of  novelty  is  gone.  She  has  some  foolish  exalted 
idea  of  Mr.  Forde's  character,  a  half-religious  hallucination  that 
is  not  likely  to  last  long." 

*•  I  hope  not,"  rejilied  the  Viscount  in  his  matter-of-fact  way. 
"  At  any  rate,  I  mean  to  stand  my  ground ;  only  it's  rather 
wearing  for  a  man's  temper.  I  wanted  the  whole  busines  settled 
and  done  with  by  the  end  of  the  season.  I've  all  manner  of  en- 
gagements for  my  yachts  and  stable.  I  must  be  at  Goodwood 
at  the  end  of  this  month,  and  I've  a  sailing-match  at  Havre  the 
first  week  in  August ;  then  come  German  steeplechases.  I've 
wasted  more  time  than  I  ever  wasted  in  my  life  before  upon  this 
affair." 
"Be  assured  of  my  entire  sympathy,"  murmured  Mrs.  Chevenix. 

'  t^  'v*s,  of  course,  I  know  you  are  all  there,"  answered  the 


?22  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

Japless  lover,  carelessly.  "I've  known  all  along  you'd  be  on 
jny  side.  It  isn't  likely  you'd  back  that  plater," — by  which 
contemptuous  epithet  he  described  his  rival.  "  But  I  should 
like  to  see  the  wind-up  of  this  engagement,  or,"  almost  savagely, 
"  I  should  like  to  get  Elizabeth  Luttrell  out  of  my  head,  and  be 
my  own  man  again." 

Mrs.  Chevenix  shuddered.  This  hint  of  a  sudden  wrench,  a 
violent  effort  to  emancipate  himself,  on  the  part  of  the  Viscount, 
filled  her  soul  with  consternation. 

"  I'm  doing  very  wrong,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden  gush 
of  friendship.  "  It  is  a  breach  of  confidence  for  which  I  shall 
hardly  be  able  to  forgive  myself,  but  I  can't  bear  to  see  you 
suffer,  and  to  withhold  knowledge  that  might  be  consolatory.  I 
have  reason  to  believe  that  the  engagement  between  my  nieca 
and  Mr.  Forde  is  at  an  end." 

"  What !"  cried  Eeginald  Paulyn ;  "  she  has  thrown  him  off. 
She  has  served  him  as  she  serves  everybody  else,  blown  hot  one 
day  and  cold  the  next." 

"  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  they  have  quarrelled,"  Mrs. 
Chevenix  said  mysteriously. 

"  AYhat,  has  she  seen  him  lately?" 

"  She  has ;  and  since  I  have  gone  so  far, — on  the  impulse  of 
the  moment,  prompted  only  by  my  sympathy  with  your  depth 
of  feeling, — I  must  still  go  farther.  The  quarrel  was  about  you. 
Mr.  Forde  had  seen  some  paragraph  associating  your  names — a 
marriage  in  high  life — something  absurd  of  that  kind." 

"Yes,  I  know;  Cinqmars  showed  me  the  newspaper.  It  was 
his  doing,  I  fancy.  Mrs.  Cinqmars  has  taken  me  under  her  wing, 
and  no  doubt  inspired  the  paragraph,  with  the  notion  that  it 
might  bring  matters  to  a  crisis." 

"  It  has  produced  a  crisis,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix,  solemnly, 
"  and  a  very  painful  one  for  EHzabeth.  Ttie  poor  girl  is  utterly 
crushed." 

"  She  was  so  fond  of  that  beggar,"  muttered  Lord  Paulyn, 
gloomily. 

"  Perhaps  not  bo  much  on  that  account  as  for  the  humiliation 
involved  in  such  an  idea.  To  be  accused  of  having  played  fast 
and  loose,  of  having  encouraged  your  attentions  while  she  was 
engaged  to  him.  And  now,  between  you  both,  she  finds  herself 
abandoned,  standing  alone  in  the  world,  perhaps  the  mark  for 
slander." 

•'  Abandoned  !  standing  alone  !"  cried  Lord  Paulyn,  starting 
up  from  his  low  chair  as  if  he  would  have  rushed  off  at  once  in 
quest  of  a  marriage  license.  "  Why,  she  must  know  that  I  am 
ready  to  marry  her  to-morrow  !" 

This  was  just  the  point  at  which  Mrs.  Chevenix  could  afford 
to  leave  Vim. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  223 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  she  exclaimed,  "  moderate  your  feel- 
ings, I  entreat.  She  is  not  a  girl  to  be  taken  by  storm.  Let 
her  recover  from  the  shock  she  has  received;  then,  while  her  heart 
is  still  sore,  wounded,  weary  with  a  sense  of  i-ts  own  emptiness, 
then  urge  your  suit  once  more,  ai>d  I  have  little  doubt  that  yotl 
will  conquer;  that  the  contrast  between  your  generous  all-con- 
fiding affection  and  Mr.  Forde'a  jealous  tyranny  will  awaken  the 
purest  and  truest  emotions  of  her  heart." 

Tliis  was  a  more  exalted  style  of  language  than  Reginald 
Paulyn  cared  about — a  kind  of  thing  which,  in  his  own  simple 
and  forcible  vocabulary,  ho  denominated  "  humbug  " — but  the 
main  fact  was  pleasing  to  him.  Elijzabeth  had  dismissed,  or  had 
been  deserted  by,  her  plighted  lover.  The  ground  was  cleared 
for  himself. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

"  She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be  ; 

Sorely  she  wept  until  the  night  came  on, 
And  then,  instead  of  love,  0  misery  ! 

She  brooded  o'er  the  luxury  alone : 
His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seem'd  to  see, 

And  to  the  silence  made  a  gentle  moan, 
Spreading  her  perfect  arms  upon  the  air, 
And  on  her  couch  low  murmuring,   'Where?  0  where?" 

No  flicker  of  colour  brightened  the  palUd  cheeks,  no  ray  of  their 
accustomed  light  shone  in  the  dull  ej^es,  and  yet  Elizabeth  waa 
not  ill.     She  was  only  intensely  miserable, 

"  I  only  wish  I  were  ill,"  she  said,  impatiently,  when  her  aunt 
urged  the  necessity  of  medical  advice,  change  of  air — some 
speedy  means  by  which  blanched  cheeks  and  heavy  eyes  might 
be  cured.  "  For  in  that  case  there  might  be  some  hope  that  I 
should  die.  But  I  am  not  ill;  I  don't  believe  my  pulse  beats 
half-a-dozen  times  more  in  a  minute  since  Malcolm  Forde  re- 
nounced me.  I  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep  even,  more  or  less. 
There  are  a  good  many  hours  in  every  night  in  which  I  lie  awake 
stparir  g  at  the  wall ;  but  before  the  maid  comes  to  get  my  bath 
ready,  I  do  manage  to  sleep,  somehow.  And  I  dream  that 
Malcolm  and  I  are  happy,  walking  on  the  common  just  beyond 
our  house  at  Hawleigh.  I  never  dream  of  our  quarrel  ;  only 
that  I  am  with  him,  and  utterly  happy.  I  think  the  \mu.  of 
waking  from  one  of  those  lying  dreams,  and  finding  that  it  is 
only  a  dream,  is  sharper  agony  than  the  worst  vision  of  his  uu- 
kindness  with  which  sleep  could  torture  me.  To  dream  that  he 
iu  all  my  own,  to  feel  his  hand  locked  in  mine,  and  to  wake  aud 
remember  that  I  have  lost  him — yes,  that  is  misery." 


224  Strangers  and  Pilgrimts. 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Chcvenix  would  dilate  upon  the  child ishnnss 
of  such  regrets,  and  would  set  forth  the  numerous  deprivatiuua 
which  her  niece  would  have  had  to  endure  as  Mr.  Forde's  wife ; 
how  she  could  never  have  kept  her  carriage,  or  at  best  only  a 
pony-chaise  or  one-horse  wagonette,  the  hollowest  mockery  or 
phantasm  of  a  carriage,  infinitely  worse  than  none,  as  impljdng 
the  desire  for  an  equipage  without  the  ability  to  maintain  one 
— a  thing  that  would  be  spoken  of  timorously  as  a  "conveyance ;" 
how,  as  a  clergyman's  wife,  she  could  not  hope  to  be  on  a  level 
with  the  county  families ;  how  all  her  natural  aspirations  for 
"  style  "  and  "  society  "  would  be  nipped  in  the  bud  ;  while  such 
means  as  her  husband  could  command  would  be  devoted  to  the 
relief  of  tiresome  old  women,  and  the  maintenance  of  an  expen- 
sive choir.  From  this  dreary  picture  Mrs.  Chevenix  branched 
0  ff  to  Lord  Paulyn.  his  generosity,  his  self-abnegation,  his  chi- 
valry, his  thousand  virtues,  and  his  three  country  seats. 

"  If  I  could  be  talked  into  marrying  a  man  I  don't  care  a 
straw  about,  while  I  love  another  with  all  my-  heart  and  soul, 
your  eloquence  might  ultimately  unite  me  to  Lord  Paulyn," 
Elizabeth  said,  with  a  sneer  ;  "  but  I  am  not  quite  weak  enough 
for  that.  I  daresay  it  sounds  very  ungrateful,  after  all  the 
money  you  have  spent  upon  me,  and  all  the  trouble  you  have 
taken  about  me;  but  0,  aunt  Chevenix,  how  I  wish  Iliad 
never  come  to  London  !  The  beginning  of  my  visit  to  you  was 
the  beginning  of  my  quarrel  with  Malcolm.  How  could  I 
shght  a  wish  of  his  I  I  loved  him  hopelessly  for  a  long  year 
before  I  won  him,  and  I  only  kept  his  love  a  few  short  weeks. 
Was  there  ever  such  folly  since  the  world  began  ?" 

Mrs.  Chevenix  uri>ed  Brighton  as  the  universal  healer  of  cock- 
ney griefs.  What  Londoner  does  not  believe  in  the  curative 
powers  of  Brighton  for  all  ailments  of  the  mind  and  body?  The 
pleasant  treadmill  tramp  up  and  down  the  King's-road,  inter- 
changing affectionate  greetings  with  people  you  met  yesterday 
in  Bond-street;  the  agreeable  monotony  of  the  pier;  the  per- 
vading flavour  of  l^ondon  which  mingles  \iith  the  salt  breath  of 
the  sea.  Mrs.  Chevenix  declared  that  in  that  cheerful  atmo- 
sphere Elizabeth  would  forget  her  griefs. 

"  It  is  not  the  season  for  Brighton,  I  admit,"  she  confessed, 
l^eluctantly,  "  but  there  are  always  plenty  of  nice  people  there 
in  the  Goodwood  week  ;  or  we  might  even  stay  at  Chichester,  if 
you  preferred  it." 

"  You  are  very  good  to  trouble  yourself  so  much  about  me,"  said 
Ehzabeth,  trying  to  be  grati^ful,  yet  with  an  air  of  extreme  weari- 
ness; "  but  I  assure  you  there  is  nothing  the  matter — nothing 
but  a  sorrow  that  must  wear  itself  out  somehow — as  all  sorrows 
do,  I  euppose,  when  people  are  young  and  strong  as  I  am,  and 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims,  225 

not  of  the  stuff  that  grief  can  destroy.  The  best  place  foi*  me 
is  home.  I  shall  not  give  any  one  trouble  there.  I  can  just 
lire  my  own  life ;  visit  the  poor,  pei-haps,  a  little  again,"  with  a 
faint  choking  sob;  "or  teach  in  the  Sunday  school;  and  no  one 
will  take  any  notice  of  me.  I  am  not  at  all  tit  for  society.  I 
don't  hear  what  people  are  saying,  and  I  am  always  in  danger 
of  answering  at  random ;  and  I  don't  want  people  to  talk  about 
the  worm  in  the  bud,  or  to  sit  like  Patience  on  a  monument, 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  Let  me  take  my  sorrow  home  to 
Hawleigh,  auntie,  and  dig  a  decent  grave  for  it  there." 

"  Go  back  to  Hawleigh !  Yes ;  to  meet  that  man  again,  I 
suppose,  and  begin  over  again." 

"  No  fear  of  that.  I  had  a  letter  from  Gertrude  this  morning ; 
I'll  read  you  what  she  says  about  him,  if  you  like." 

She  took  out  a  closely-written  letter ;  that  wondrous  compo- 
sition, a  lady's  letter,  utterly  devoid  of  intelligence  likely  to 
intci-est  the  human  mind,  yet  crossed  and  bracketed  and  inter- 
polated, as  if  brimming  over  with  matter. 

"  We  have  all  been  surprised  by  Mr.  Forde's  sudden  desertion 
of  Hawleigh,  and  can  only  imagine  that  things  are  ended  be- 
tween you  and  him ;  and  that  you  have  returned  to  your  old 
idea  about  Lord  Paulyn.  I  know  auntie  had  set  her  heart  upon 
that  match,  and  I  never  thought  your  engagement  to  Mr.  Forde 
would  survive  your  visit  to  Eaton-place." 

"  Other  people  could  see  my  peril,"  said  Elizabeth  bitterly,  as 
she  folded  the  letter.     "  It  was  only  I  who  was  blind." 

"  Other  people  are  blessed  with  common  sense,  and  would 
naturally  foresee  the  tei-mination  of  so  ill-advised  an  angage- 
ment,"  Mrs.  Chevenix  replied  shai-ply.  She  was  fast  losing 
patience  with  this  favourite  niece  of  hers,  who  had  fortune  at 
her  feet,  and  spurned  it.  "  The  day  will  come  when  you  will 
repent  this  folly,"  she  said,  "  at  a  time  when  it  may  be  too  late 
to  retrace  your  steps.  Even  Lord  Paulyn's  infatuation  will  not 
last  for  ever;  you  have  trifled  with  him  too  long  already." 

"Trifled  with  him!"  echoed  Elizabeth  scornfuUjr ;  "I 
have  only  one  wish  about  him, — that  I  may  never  see  his  fact 
again." 

Mrs.  Cinqmara  called  in  Eaton-place  a  day  or  two  after  the 
private  theatricals,  and  was  full  of  anxiety  about  her  sweet 
Elizabeth;  entreating  to  be  allowed  to  see  her,  if  only  for 
a  few  minutes.  But  this  privilege  Miss  Luttrell  refused 
obstinately. 

"  I  detest  the  whole  set,  and  will  never  see  any  of  thom  again," 
she  said  fretfully,  when  her  aunt  brought  her  that  lady's  mes- 
sage. Nor  did  Mrs.  Chevenix  press  the  point;  she  did  not  care 
to  expose  her  niece's  faded  couuteuance  to  the  shnrp  ey^s  o{ 


226  Strangers  and  JPilgrims. 

Mrs,  Cinqmara.  She  did  not  want  the  Rancho  world  to  kno\f 
that  Elizabeth  had  been  deserted  by  her  lover,  and  had  taken 
that  desertion  so  deeply  to  heart. 

After  about  a  week  of  anxiety,  during  which  she  had  hoped 
every  d.ay  to  see  the  girl's  dull  face  brighten,  and  her  spirits 
rewve  with  the  natural  elasticity  of  youth,  Mrs.  Chevenix  lost 
heart;  and  hearing  of  some  particular  friends  who  were  just 
returning  to  Torquay,  she  consented  to  Elizabeth's  return  under 
their  wing.  They  would  take  her  to  Exeter,  where  her  father 
could  meet  her  on  the  arrival  of  the  down  train;  so  that  the 
proprieties  should  be  in  no  manner  outraged  by  her  journey. 
The  girl  seemed  so  utterly  broken  down,  that  it  was  hopeless  to 
expect  her  speedy  revival.  All  Mrs.  Chevenix's  ambitious 
dreams  must  be  held  in  suspense  till  next  year  ;  unless  destiny 
interposed  in  some  beneficent  manner  during  the  hunting  season, 
when  Lord  Panlyn  might  reappear  at  the  Vicaragt,  and  find 
this  wretched  girl  cured  of  her  folly. 

So  Elizabeth  had  her  wish,  and  went  home ;  went  home  to 
bury  her  misery  in  the  dull  quiet  of  the  old  life,  glad  to  be 
released  from  that  brighter  world  which  had  now  become  odious 
to  her.  It  is  possible  that  some  lurking  hope,  some  expectation 
she  would  scarcely  confess  to  herself,  was  at  the  root  of  her 
eager  desire  for  that  homeward  journey. 

She  went  over  that  brief  sentence  in  Gertrude's  letter  again  and 
a^ain ;  "  they  had  been  surprised  by  Mr.  Forde's  sudden  desertion 
of  Hawleigh."  What  did  that  mean  ?  Had  he  returned  to  his 
duties  and  announced  the  approaching  termination  of  them  ?  or 
was  the  "  desei-tion  "  of  which  her  sister  wrote  an  accomplished 
fact  ?  Had  he  bidden  them  farewell,  and  departed  to  some  new 
field  of  usefulness  ?  Had  he  shifted  the  scene  of  that  laborious 
career  which  Mother  Church  reserves  for  her  children  ? 

"  I  shall  be  enlightened  to-night,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
bade  her  aunt  good-bye  at  Paddington,  in  the  brilliant  summer 
noontide.  The  departure  platform  was  crowded  with  holiday 
travellers,  people  who  appeai-ed  to  be  serene  in  a  fixed  belief  that 
this  life  was  intended  for  the  pursuit  of  frivolous  pleasures. 

She  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  railway-carriage,  with  half-closed 
eyes,  during  the  greater  part  of  the  journey,  pretending  to  be 
asleep,  as  a  means  of  escaping  the  benevolent  officiousness  of 
her  aunt's  particular  friends ;  but  she  was  conscious  of  every 
feature  in  the  landscape  that  flashed  past  the  window,  and  the 
journey  seemed  of  an  almost  intolerable  length  to  her  weary 
spirit.  Her  father's  mild  face  peering  in  at  the  window,  when 
the  train  entered  Exeter's  stately  terminus,  struck  her  with  an 
emotion  that  was  almost  pain.  She  had  thought  of  him  so 
litlle  during  the  last  few  months  ;  had  lived  her  own  life — a  life 
of  pleasure  and  vanity — with  so  supreme  a  selfishness.    Sha 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  227 

clung  to  him  for  a  moment,  aa  he  kissed  her,  with  a  remorseful 
tenderness. 

"  Why,  Lizzie,  my  dear,  how  ill  you  look  ! "  he  said,  startled 
by  the  settled  pallor  of  the  face,  that  looked  at  him  with  such  a 
new  tenderness ;  "  Maria  told  me  nothing  in  her  last  letter," 

"There  was  nothing  to  tell,  papa,"  said  Elizabeth;  "I  am 
not  ill,  only  very  tired." 

"  That  foolish  theatrical  performance,  I'm  afraid,  my  love ;  or 

— or -"  looking  at  her  anxiously,  "  you  may  have  been  unhappy 

about  something — some  misunderstanding.     I  have  seen  Forde." 

They  were  alone  together  in  a  deserted  waiting-room  ;  the 
South  Devon  train  having  whisked  Mrs.  Chevenix's  particular 
friends  off  to  Torquay. 

"  Then  you  know  all,  papa,"  with  a  feeble  attempt  to  appear 
supremely  indifferent ;  "  that  he  and  I  did  not  suit  each  other, 
and  have  agreed  to  differ,  as  some  one  says  somewhere." 

"  Something  to  that  effect,  my  dear.  But  Forde  fully  exone- 
rated you.     He  took  all  the  blame  upon  himself" 

"Very  generous,"  with  her  old  scornful  laugh;  "but  the 
usual  thing  in  sucja  '^ases,  I  believe.  Are  you  very  angry  with 
me  for  coming  back  to  you  in  this  forlorn  condition  ?  " 

"  Angry  with  you,  my  love !  How  can  you  imagine  such  a 
thing  !  Forde  is  an  excellent  fellow,  but  could  never  have  been 
a  good  match  for  you.  I  am  not  the  kind  of  man  to  intefere 
with  my  children's  wishes  ;  but  your  aunt  had  inspired  me  with 
more  ambitious  ideas  about  you.'and  I  confess  I  was  disappointed." 

"  Tlien  you  may  be  quite  happy,  papa ;  Mr.  Forde  and  I  have 
parted  for  ever." 

"  He  tuni'd  him  right  and  round  about, 
Upon  the  Irish  shore  ; 
And  gae  his  bridle-reins  a  shake. 
With  adieu  for  ever  more,  my  dear, 
With  adieu  for  ever  more  ! '  " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Can  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 

With  wisdom  from  on  high, 
Can  we  to  men  benighted 

The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? 
Salvation  !   0  salvation  ! 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim, 
Till  each  remotest  nation 

Has  learnt  Messiah's  name." 

It  was  a  dismal  coming  home  after  all  the  glories  of  that  Lon- 
dwj  season.      There  was  a  suppressed  triumph  in  Gertrudcr'/j 


228  Strangers  and  Fivgrimt. 

manner,  wbich  Elizabeth  felt,  but  coulrl  hardly  take  objection 
to.  Diana  was  indifferent,  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  observed 
that  Mrs.  Chevenix's  London  seasons  were  not  astounding  iu 
their  results.  "  We  are  like  Somebody  and  his  men,"  she  said; 
"  we  all  ride  up  tl*  hill,  and  then  ride  down  again."  The  beauty  of 
the  family  had  not  endeared  herself  infinitely  to  these  elder 
sisters.  Blanche  clung  about  her  tenderly,  and  sighed,  and 
mutely  sympathised,  not  daring  to  speak  of  her  sister's  woes? 
but  evidently  brimming  over  with  compassion.  The  caresses  an(L 
unspoken  compassion  were  a  great  deal  more  tiresome  to  Eliza- 
beth than  the  spiteful  exultation  of  the  elders. 

"  I  almost  wish  I  had  come  back  engaged  to  Lord  Paulyn," 
she  said  to  herself.  "  It  would  be  better  to  marry  a  man  one 
despised  than  to  put  up  with  this  kind  of  thing." 

Mr,  Forde's  name  was  evidently  tabooed  in  the  domestic 
circle,  as  a  delicate  attention  to  herself;  but  she  had  made  her 
father  tell  her  all  he  knew  about  her  lost  lover  during  the  jour- 
ney from  Exeter. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  he  is  going  to  put  his  old  idea  into  execution ; 
he  is  going  to  the  South- Sea  Islands  as  a  missionary.  It  is  a 
kind  of  craze  of  his,  poor  fellow ;  and  upon  my  word,  Lizzie,  I 
think  you  are  happily  released  from  your  engagement  to  a  man 
with  such  a  notion.  Rely  upon  it,  the  old  idea  would  have  got 
the  better  of  him  sooner  or  later,  however  comfortably  settled  he 
might  have  been  in  England ;  and  he  would  have  wanted  to  drag 
you  off  to  some  savage  country  with  him." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Elizabeth,  with  a  little  sigh. 

She  was  thinking  what  happiness  it  would  have  seemed  to 
her  to  have  gone  with  him ;  to  have  shared  his  perils,  to  have 
lightened  his  labours,  to  have  been  verily  the  other  half  of  hia 
mind  and  soul.  What  matter  how  desolate  the  region  so  long 
as  they  two  had  been  together ;  to  have  watched  his  slumbers  in 
those  long  silent  nights,  with  no  sound  save  the  distant  cry  of 
some  beast  of  prey ;  to  have  died  even,  clasped  to  his  breast, 
beneath  a  rain  of  poisoned  arrows ;  or  done  to  death  by  a  savage's 
stone  hatchet ! 

"  When  does  he  go  ?  "  she  asked  presently. 
"  Immediately.     He  has  bidden  us  all  good-bye.   He  preacher 
his  farewell  sermon  in  St.  Clement's  to-morrow  evening." 

"  Her  heart  gave  a  wild  leap  at  this.  She  would  hear  his 
voice  once  more.  He  would  see  her  sitting  in  her  accustomed 
corner  in  the  old  square  pew  below  the  pulpit — could  not  help 
seeing  her  all  through  his  sermon  ;  who  could  tell  if  the  sight  of 
her  face  might  not  melt  him  ? 

"  But  his  heart  is  made  of  stone,"  she  thought,  "  or  it  would 
have  softened  towards  me  before  this.  He  has  only  a  heart  for 
the  heathen ;  not  for  common  human  sorrows,  not  for  the  io"t« 
Rgonies  of  a  love  like  mine."  ^ 


Strangers  and  Pilgrima.  229 

"  1  sappose  if  I  had  any  proper  pride,  I  sbcnld  not  go  to  hear 
him  preach  to-morrow  night,"  she  said  to  herself;  "  but  I  think 
my  stock  of  pride  was  exliausted  the  day  he  came  to  me  in 
Eaton-place.  If  that  interview  were  to  come  over  again  I  would 
grovel  in  the  dust  at  his  feet.  What  is  there  that  1  would  nol 
do  to  win  him  back  ?  " 

Home  hardly  seemed  such  a  peaceful  shelter  as  she  had  fancied 
it  when  she  turned  with  disgust  from  the  frivolities  of  Eaton- 
place.  It  would  have  been  very  well  without  her  sisters;  but 
she  had  an  uncomfortable  consciousness  that  six  watchful  eyes 
were  upon  her,  and  that  three  active  minds  were  occui)ied  in  the 
consideration  of  her  affairs.  She  had  not  even  the  comfort  of 
solitude  in  the  night  season,  for  her  tower  was  shared  by 
Blanche,  and  she  could  not  sigh  or  sob  in  her  sleep  without 
arousing  that  sympathetic  young  person,  who  was  unhappily  a 
light  sleeper.  She  heard  soothing  murmurs  of  "  poor  Lizzie," 
'  poor  darling,"  amidst  her  fitful  slumber;  and  turned  angrily 
upon  her  pillow,  with  her  face  to  the  wall,  like  king  David  in  the 
day  of  his  sorrow. 

She  looked  desperately  ill  next  morning  when  the  July  sun 
ehone  into  the  tower  chamber,  and  the  skylark  sent  up  his 
orisons  from  his  wicker  cage  outside  the  arched  casement.  The 
excitement  of  her  return,  vague  hopes  that  lightened  her  despair, 
had  brightened  her  face  with  a  faint  semblance  of  the  old  bright- 
ness yesterday  evening;  but  to-day  Blanche  beheld  the  wreck 
that  one  season's  joys  and  soitows  had  made  of  her  sister. 

"  I'll  bring  you  your  breakfast,  darling,"  she  said,  in  her 
caressing  way.  "Of  course  you  won't  think  of  going  to  church 
to-day." 

"  Did  you  ever  kno^v  /ne  stop  away  from  church  on  a  Sunday 
morning  ?  "  Elisabeth  answered  impatiently ;  "  that  is  one  of 
the  penalties  of  our  position." 

"  But  if  you  are  really  ill,  darling."  _ 

"  I  am  not  really  ill ;  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me. 
You  needn't  stare  at  me  in  that  disconsolate  way.  I  can't 
help  it  if  I  am  pale :  a  London  season  is  not  calculated  to 
improve  one's  complexion.  You  can  send  me  up  a  cup  of  tea 
presently,  if  you  like ;  I  always  had  an  early  cup  of  tea  in  Lon- 
don. And  if  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  go  on  dressing  and 
take  no  notice  of  me,  I  may  be  able  to  get  half-an-hour's  sleep." 

That  half-hour's  sleep  seemed  to  have  done  a  good  deal  for 
Elizabeth  ;  for  when  she  came  downstairs,  after  a  cold  bath  and 
a  careful  toilette,  when  the  bells  began  to  ring  gaily  out  from 
the  ponderous  square  tower  of  St.  Clement's,  she  was  looking 
something  Hke  her  old  self.  She  had  put  on  her  prettiest  bonnet, 
and  had  dressed  herself  in  white;  the  dress  Malcolm  had  always 
praised.     If  the  charm  of  a  bonnet  or  a  dress  could  only  touch 


230  Stranger*  and  Fllgrims. 

his  heart,  and  keep  him  from  cocoa-nut  groves,  and  savage 
women  in  scanty  raiment,  and  other  horrors ! 

What  a  strange  thing  it  seemed  to  hear  his  voice  once  more  in 
the  gray  old  church  ! — to  hear  it  and  to  know  that  this  day  was 
the  last  upon  which  she  could  ever  hope  to  hear  it;  for  beyond 
that  dismal  mission  who  would  dare  to  look  P  She  tried  to  realise 
the  fact  of  his  speedy  departure,  but  it  was  difficult.  His  pre- 
sence in  the  old  famihar  church  was  such  a  natural  thing — a 
fact  that  had  been  going  on  all  her  life,  it  seemed  to  her ;  for 
she  could  hardly  bring  herself  to  look  behind  those  days,  to  the 
blank  era  of  ciirates  who  counted  for  nothing  in  her  existence. 
And  the  church  would  be  there  still,  a  dreary  immutability  ;  the 
voice  of  a  stranger  echoing  along  the  same  aisle,  and  she  com- 
pelled to  sit  and  listen  :  while  her  miserable  lonely  soul  tried  to 
follow  that  beloved  wanderer  across  unknown  seas,  to  a  land 
that  was  more  strange  than  a  fairy  tale. 

His  presence  there  to-day,  considered  in  the  light  of  that  near 
future,  had  a  phantasmal  aspect,  as  if  the  spirit  of  the  newly- 
dead  had  been  with  them  for  a  brief  space,  looking  at  them  with 
kind  and  mournful  eyes.  Was  he  not  like  the  very  dead;  called 
away  to  a  land  distant  and  inaccessible  as  the  regions  of  death  ? 
Was  there  any  stronger  hoj^e  of  seeing  him  again  than  if  he  had 
indeed  been  numbered  with  the  dead  ? 

He,  too,  had  changed  since  that  day  in  Eaton-place.  He  was 
paler  than  usual,  and  his  eyes  had  a  haggard  look,  as  with 
prolonged  sleeplessness.  But  Elizabeth  dared  not  appropriate 
to  herself  these  signs  of  deep  feeling.  Was  there  not  enough  in 
his  parting  with  these  people,  in  the  thoughts  of  the  new  Ufe 
that  lay  before  him,  to  move  him  strangely  ? 

Not  once  throughout  that  morning  service  did  their  eyes 
meet.  He  read  the  prayers  and  lessons  in  his  grave  firm  voice, 
with  no  sign  of  faltering,  every  tone  strong  and  penetrating  as 
of  old,  no  fragments  of  sentences  going  astray  among  the 
echoes,  every  word  clear,  resonant  as  a  deep-toned  bell. 

The  interval  between  the  two  services  was  a  dreary  blank  for 
Elizabeth.  The  monotonous  machinery  of  home,  which  had 
been  so  wearisome  before  her  departure,  seemed  still  more  weari- 
some now.  She  shuddered  at  the  thought  that  her  life  was  to 
go  on  for  ever  and  ever  hke  this;  every  Sunday  an  exact 
repetition  of  other  Sundays.  The  mid-day  luncheon,  enhvened 
by  an  occasional  dropper-in ;  the  afternoon  dawdled  away  some- 
how ;  the  evening  service,  in  the  mournful  summer  dusk ;  the 
all-pervading  sense  that  life  was  an  objectless  business.  How 
was  she  to  endure  these  things  until  the  end  of  her  days  ? 

Evening  came  at  last :  the  bells  ringing  with  a  soft^i  sound 
in  the  balmy  air.  The  old  church  was  more  crowded  than 
Elizabeth  ever  remembered  to  have  boca  it  before,  crowded  with 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  231 

people  who  very  eeldom  came  to  church,  crowded  with  those  for 
whom  Mr.  Forde  had  worked  with  an  unflagging  zeal — tLa  very 
prior. 

Mr.  Luttrell  read  prayers,  prayers  which  Elizabeth  heard  un- 
conscious of  their  meaning ;  while  Gertrude  prayed  and  responded 
in  her  usual  business-like  way,  with  the  air  of  an  ancient 
mother  assisting  at  the  sacrifice  of  her  son.  Very  long  those 
prayers  seemed  to  Elizabeth,  but  they  came  to  an  end  at  last,  and 
ui  the  deepening  dusk  Mr.  Forde  went  slowly  up  to  the  pulpit. 

Then,  as  he  adjusted  the  newly-lighted  wax-candles  on  each 
side  of  him,  needing  the  light  very  little  for  his  own  convenience, 
since  his  sermons  were  chiefly  extempore,  he  looked  thoughtfully 
downwards,  and,  Elizabeth  looking  up  from  her  corner  in  the 
old  pew,  their  eyes  met  for  the  first  time;  his  so  grave  and 
ejnritual  in  their  expression,  with  a  far-away  look,  as  of  a  man 
whose  thoughts  dwell  in  worlds  remote  from  this  comujon 
earth  ;  hers  yearning,  imploring,  despairing. 

Brief  was  the  moment  of  those  looks  meeting.  He  unrolled 
his  little  black-covered  volume  of  notes,  and  began  the  last 
Bermon  he  was  ever  to  preach  in  Hawleigh. 

Wanting  the  fire  of  the  speaker's  voice  and  manner,  the  dei)th 
of  pathos  in  some  passages)  the  passion  of  faith  in  others,  a 
barren  transcript  of  that  farewell  address  might  seem  common- 
place enough.  The  things  he  had  to  say  to  them  were  things 
that  have  been  said  very  often  before  at  such  partings  ;  it  was 
only  the  man  who  was  exceptional :  exceptional  in  his  earnest- 
ness, exceptional  in  a  certain  grandeur  of  face  and  manner, 
which,  to  that  regretful  assembly,  made  him  God-like.  He  told 
them  simply,  but  with  a  fervour  in  those  simple  phrases,  a 
warmth  in  those  subdued  tones,  how  he  had  laboured  for  them 
and  loved  them;  with  what  happy  results,  with  a  love  that  had 
been  returned  to  him  sevenfold,  with  experiences  that  had  been 
unutterably  sweet  to  him.  He  told  them  how  he  dared  to 
believe  that  much  of  his  labour  among  them  would  be  per- 
manent ;  that  it  was  work  which,  done  once,  was  done  for  ever ; 
that  the  seed  would  remain  and  yield  a  plenteous  harvest,  when 
he  the  sower  was  far  away,  labouring  to  redeem  waste  lands 
where  no  seed  had  ever  been  scattered,  where  no  sheaves  had 
ever  been  gathered  for  the  Master's  barns.  Then,  with  a  sudden 
change  from  mournful  tenderness  to  supreme  enthusiasm,  he 
told  them  what  he  was  going  to  do.  How  this  mission  service 
was  the  realisation  of  a  hope  and  a  dream  that  had  been  with 
him  more  or  less  from  the  beginning,  that  had  swelled  his  heart 
long  go,  wlien  he  was  a  boy  at  his  mother's  knee,  hearing  from 
her  dear  h])3  sad  stories  of  that  far-away  world  where  the  light 
of  revelation  had  never  cloven  the  thick  darkness,  where  man 
lived  and  died  without  God. 


232  Strangers  and  Pirgn'ms. 

Of  possible  dangers  to  he  enconntered  he  spoke  not  at  all 
He  showed  them  only  the  brighter  side  of  a  missionary's  career; 
the  grandeur  of  his  privileges  as  a  bearer  of  glad  tidings,  the  vast 
hopes  that  he  carried  with  him  as  the  regenerator  of  a  people  lost 
to  their  God,  as  the  very  agent  and  lieutenant  of  Christ  himself. 
He  dwelt  with  a  picturesque  fancy  on  the  natural  splendour  of 
that  remote  world  amidst  the  southern  sea.  He  spoke  of  those 
groves  where  the  breadfruit-tree  spreads  its  stalwart  branches 
wide  as  those  of  patriarchal  oak  or  elm  in  pleasant  England; 
where  the  leafy  woods  in  nature's  calm  decay  are  glorious  with 
an  ever-changing  splendour  of  hue  unknown  in  colder  climes ; 
where  here  and  there  in  quiet  valleys  men  and  women  live  in  an 
almost  Arcadian  simplicity;  yet  in  their  utter  ignorance  of 
good  and  evil  have  no  such  words  in  their  vocabulary  as  honour, 
truth,  or  virtue;  while  in  other  isles,  perchance  as  fair  to  look 
upon,  vice  and  crime  walk  rampant,  and  superstition  too  dark 
for  words  to  paint  holds  mankind  in  its  unholy  thrall.  He  told 
them  how  those  islands  to  which  he  was  going,  discovered 
nearly  three  hundred  years  ago  by  a  Spanish  navigator,,  had 
been  suffered  to  languish  in  outer  darkness  until  now,  and  how 
it  was  his  hope  and  prayer  to  be  their  earliest  evangelist.  He 
told  them  briefly  of  the  far  greater  men  who  had  gone  before 
him,  of  the  saints  of  old  time,  who  had  undertaken  such  missions 
in  ages  when  their  peril  was  tenfold,  and  then  lightly  touched 
upon  the  history  of  later  missions,  from  the  sailing  of  the- Duff 
downwards. 

At  the  close  of  that  farewell  address,  there  was  scarcely  one 
among  his  hearers,  except  the  miserable  girl  who  loved  him  with 
a  too  earthly  love,  whose  heart  was  not  warmed  with  some 
touch  of  his  own  heroic  passion,  and  who  would  not  have  felt 
ashamed  of  a  selfish  desire  to  detain  him.  He  seemed  created 
to  fulfil  the  mission  he  had  chosen  for  himself;  God's  fitting 
instrument  for  the  noblest  work  that  was  ever  given  unto  man 
to  do. 

Upon  Elizabeth's  ear  the  solemn  close  of  that  leavetaking 
Bounded  like  a  funeral  knell.  Would  she  ever  hear  his  voi'ce 
again — ever,  in  all  the  dreary  days  to  come,  feel  her  heart 
stirred  by  those  deep-toned  accents — ever  again  look  upward  to 
that  earnest  face,  which  to-night  had  a  grandeur  that  was  not 
of  the  earth,  earthy? 

Now,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  she  utterly  despaired  of  his 
relenting — of  his  turning  back  to  take  her  to  his  heart  again. 
He  did  not  need  her  or  her  human  love.  He  had  so  wide  a  Ufa 
without  her,  and  beyond  her — a  life  which  she  could  never  have 
shared,  since  she  lacked  all  the  gifts  that  were  needed  to  open  the 
door  of  that  divine  city  >vhere  he  dwelt  in  an  atmosphere  of  light 
supernal.    Could  her  feeble  aspirations  towards  things  celestiali 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  233 

her  wavering  faith,  have  ever  enabled  her  to  tread  the  path  he 
frod  ?  Alas,  no  !  To-night  she  felt  how  vast  was  the  distance 
that  divided  them ;  and  that,  ii  he  had  suffered  her  to  attach 
herself  to  his  career,  she  would  have  been  nothing  but  a  clog 
and  a  hindrance  for  him.  And  she  felt  with  exceeding  bitterness 
how  easy  it  was  for  him  to  renounce  her— for  him,  whose  soul 
was  lifted  to  the  very  gates  of  heaven  by  those  splendid  dreams 
with  which  she  had  no  sympathy.  She  thought  with  miserable 
self-scorn  of  her  fancy  that  he  would  have  lound  his  life  unen- 
durable without  her ;  that  she  must  needs  be  as  necessary  to  his 
existence  ar  tie  was  to  hers.  Poor  deluded  fool!  she  had 
taken  no  aujount  of  his  one  supreme  ambition  when  she  made 
that  calculation;  she  had  thought  of  him  only  as  a  weak 
creature  like  herself,  the  slave  of  an  earthly  passion. 

Throughout  that  eloquent  sermon  she  had  hardly  taken  her 
eyes  from  his  face ;  but  not  often  had  his  glance  shot  downwards/ 
to  the  dusky  comer  where  she  sat,  a  white  still  figure,  phantom- 
like in  the  uncertain  hght.  His  gaze,  for  the  most  part,  was 
directed  far  beyond  her,  to  the  mass  of  shabbily-dressed  listeners 
who  crowded  the  other  end  of  the  church,  his  peculiar  flock, 
those  English  heathens  he  had  found  in  the  lanes  and  byways 
of  Hawleigh  and  its  neighbouring  villages,  some  of  whom  had 
walked  half-a-dozen  miles  to  hear  his  farewell. 

There  had  been  a  good  deal  of  quiet  crying  among  the  women, 
but  no  dramatic  or  oratorical  display  of  emotion  on  the  part  of 
the  preacher.  Yet  every  one  felt  that  he  was  deeply  moved ; 
that  it  was  not  without  profound  sorrow  he  bade  them  such  a 
long  good-bye.  There  was  a  solemn  hush  as  he  came  down  from 
the  pulpit,  and  for  some  breathless  moments  the  people  stood 
motionless,  looking  after  him.  Then  came  a  favourite  hymn, 
"  From  Greenland's  Icy  Mountains,"  a  hymn  which  the  congre- 
gation sang  with  faltering  voice;  tremulous  sopranos  among  the 
young-ladyhood  of  Hawleigh  testifying  to  the  esteem  in  which 
the  Curate  had  been  held.  No  sound  of  Elizabeth's  voice  min- 
gled with  that  psalmody;  Gertnide  sang  in  a  high  soprano, 
with  a  tremolo  which  she  affected  at  all  times,  and  the  air  of  a 
martyr  making  melody  as  she  marched  towards  the  stake;  and 
it  seemed  as  if  that  shrill  peal  drew  Mr.  Forde'a  attention  to 
the  Vicar's  pew.  He  looked  that  way,  and  saw  Elizabeth  stand- 
ing like  a  statue,  with  a  face  as  white  as  her  gown. 


234  Strangers  and  Pilgrir/Vi, 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  0  last  love  !     0  first  love  ! 

My  love  with  the  true,  true  heart ! 
To  think  I  have  come  to  this  your  home, 
And  yet  we  are  apart." 

A  SLEEPLESS  night ;  a  night  of  tossing  to  and  fro,  and  mental 
fever,  and  doubt,  and  uncertainty,  half-formed  resolves,  a  long 
struggle  between  love  and  pride ;  and  the  early  summer  light 
shines  on  a  pale  eager  face  and  tired  eyes  that  have  been  watch- 
ing for  the  dawn. 

When  that  laggard  morning  comes,  Elizabeth  Luttrell  hag 
made  up  her  mind  to  do  something  very  desperate,  very  mad, 
perhaps ;  she  does  not  shrink  from  confessing  as  much  to  her- 
self; but  something  without  doing  which  s»o  feels  she  cannot 
endure  her  life. 

She  will  see  him  once  more,  face  to  face ;  hear  his  voice  speak- 
ing to  her,  and  her  only,  once  more  in  their  lives ;  touch  his 
hand,  perchance,  in  friendly  farewell,  and  then  resign  herself  to 
their  inevitable  parting. 

Of  the  reversal  of  that  decree,  or  that  any  influence  she  can 
bring  to  bear  can  make  him  waver  in  his  purpose,  she  cherishes 
no  hope.  There  was  that  in  his  speech  and  manner  last  night 
which  spoke  of  a  resolve  no  earthly  forces  could  shake.  AVhat 
could  her  selfish  passion,  her  narrow  love,  do  against  a  purpose 
so  high,  a  scheme  that  involved  the  eternal  welfare  of  millions  ? 
For  who  shall  assign  the  natural  Umits  of  the  missionarj-'s  work, 
or  gauge  the  width  of  that  new  world  over  which  his  influence 
shall  extend  ? 

No;  she  deluded  herself  with  no  hope  that  he  might  be  turned 
aside  even  at  the  last  moment,  by  the  witchery  of  her  smiles,  by 
the  pathos  of  her  tears.  She  knew  now  that  his  world  was  not 
her  world ;  that  wide  as  the  east  is  from  the  west  were  his 
thoughts  from  her  thoughts.  She  hoped  nothing,  except  that 
he  would  hear  her  patiently  when  she  sought  to  exonerate  her- 
self from  the  charge  of  inconstancy,  or  any  flagrant  wrong 
against  him ;  hear  her  while  she  tofd  him  the  true  history  of 
her  acquaintance  with  Lord  Paulyn  ;  hear  and  believe  her,  and 
carry  away  with  him  at  least  the  memory  of  a  woman  who  had 
loved  him  dearly,  and  had  never  wronged  him  by  so  much  as  a 
thought. 

And  then  they  would  shake  hands  calmly,  and  he  would  giv« 
her  his  blessing,  the  blessing  of  a  possible  saint  and  martyr; 
and  so  he  would  fade  for  ever  from  her  bodily  eyes,  leaving 
only  that  image  of  him  which  she  must  carry  in  her  heart  to  the 
grave. 


Strangers  and  Pilqrims.  235 

"I  have  no  pride  where  he  is  concerned,"  she  thought,  as 
flhe  paused  to  consider  how  vast  an  outrage  against  the  con- 
ventionaUties  she  was  about  to  perpetrate. 

The  up-train  by  which  most  London-bound  travellers  of  the 
superior  or  first-class  rank  were  accustomed  to  depart  from 
Hawleigh  was  a  nine-o'clock  express.  She  thought  it  more 
than  probable  that  Mr.  Forde  would  go  to  London  as  the  pre- 
liminary stage  of  his  journey,  and  it  was  just  possible  that  he 
miirht  go  by  that  train.  If  she  called  at  his  lodgings  at  eight 
o'clock,  she  would  secure  her  desired  interview ;  she  knew  his 
early  habits,  and  that  he  had  generally  breakfasted  and  begun 
his  day's  work  by  that  hour.  Of  what  Mrs.  Humphreys,  the 
carpenter's  wife,  might  say  about  this  untimely  visit,  she 
thought  nothing;  being,  indeed,  at  all  times  too  impetuous  for 
profound  consideration  of  consequences. 

She  dressed  herself  quietly  while  Blanche  was  still  asleep. 
They  had  a  slip  of  a  bath-room,  converted  from  the  oratory  of 
some  mediaeval  chatelaine,  on  one  side  of  their  tower;  here 
Elizabeth  made  her  toilette,  and  then  crept  softly  out  of  the 
bed-chamber  without  awakening  her  sister  from  halcyon  dreams 
of  new  curates  yet  hidden  behind  the  curtain  of  fate.  She  went 
down  the  narrow  winding  stair,  and  out  by  the  lobby  door,  unseen 
by  so  much  as  a  servant ;  and  walked,  by  field-paths  and  lanes 
that  skirted  the  town,  towards  the  tranquil  domicile  of  Mr. 
Humphreys.  She  recalled  that  other  summer  morning  nearly  a 
year  ago — good  heavens !  what  a  long  year ! — when  she  had 
gone  by  the  same  road  to  make  the  same  kind  of  un- 
authorised visit,  half  in  sport  andhalf  in  earnest,  defiant,  reckless, 
eager  to  do  something  that  would  bring  light  and  colour  into 
her  monotonous  life,  and  desperately  in  love  with  the  man  she 
pretended  to  hold  so  lightly.  Then  she  had  gone  to  him  with  a 
proud  sense  of  her  power  to  conquer  and  bring  him  to  her  feet, 
as  she  had  sworn  to  do  the  night  before  in  the  passion  of 
wounded  pride.  Now  she  went  humbled  to  the  dust,  convinced 
of  her  insignificance  in  the  plan  of  his  life ;  only  anxious  that 
he  should  not  go  away  thinking  worse  of  her  than  she  deserved. 

The  street-door  of  the  Humphreys'  abode — radiant  in  the 
Bplendour  of  newly-polished  brass-plate  and  handle — was  stand- 
ing open  as  she  approached.  Mrs.  Humphreys,  engaged  in  con- 
ference with  the  butcher,  occupied  the  threshold,  and  paused 
from  her  discourse  with  an  astonished  air  at  seeing  Miss  Luttrell. 

That  air,  that  look  of  surprise,  awakened  the  girl  to  a  sense  of 
the  singularity  of  her  untimely  visit ;  the  peril  of  petty  gossip 
and  small  rustic  scandal  in  which  she  stood.  She  made  a  feeble 
attempt  to  protect  herself  from  this  hazard. 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Humphreys,"  she  said  with  a  friendly 
air.      "  I  have  been  for  a  before-breakfast  walk  round  by  the 


236  Strangers  and  Pilgtimt. 

common.  It  is  so  nice  after  London.  I  have  a  message  fo>  Ms. 
Forde  from  papa.  Do  you  think  lie  would  come  downstair  s  for 
a  few  minutes  and  hear  all  about  it  P  I  know  he  is  a  very  eurly 
riser." 

"  0,  Miss  Luttrell,  what  a  pity !  leastways  if  it's  anything 
very  particular.  Mr.  Forde  went  away  by  the  mail-train  last 
night." 

"  He  went  last  night !  "  Elizabeth  repeated  helplessly. 

"  Yes,  miss.  It  wasn't  like  him  to  travel  of  a  Sunday  evening 
— after  that  moving  sermon  too ;  there  wasn't  a  dry  eye  in  the 
church,  I  do  believe.  But  the  ship  he  sails  in— the  Columbius 
—leaves  Liverpool  this  afternoon,  and  there  was  no  help  for  it. 
I  do  hope  he'll  have  nice  weather,  poor  dear  gentleman  ! "  added 
Mrs.  Humphreys  with  a  hopeful  air,  as  if  he  had  been  about  to 
cross  the  Straits  of  Dover. 

^  This  was  a  death-blow.  He  had  gone  away,  and  carried  with 
him  to  the  other  end  of  the  world  the  conviction  of  her  faithless- 
ness. 

She  went  slowly  homewards,  wondering  vaguely  what  she 
should  do  with  the  remnant  of  her  life :  how  she  was  to  live  on 
for  an  indefinite  number  of  years,  and  eat  and  drink  and  sleep, 
and  pretend  to  be  happy,  now  that  he  had  vanished  out  of  her 
existence  for  ever.  Then  a  new  anger  against  him  was  slowly 
kindled  in  her  breast.  How  could  he  have  been  so  hard,  so  cruel, 
as  to  leave  her  thus  :  without  one  last  word  of  compassion  and 
forgiveness,  without  a  line  of  farewell  ? 

"  He  saw  me  in  the  church  last  night,"  she  thought,  "  and  yet 
could  leave  me  without  one  touch  of  pity.  He  can  boast  of 
the  grandeur  of  his  own  prospects,  the  splendour  of  his  own 
hopes,  and  he  has  not  one  thought  for  my  broken  life ;  he  cares 
nothing  what  becomes  of  me." 

She  brooded  over  this  unkindness  with  deep  resentment. 
What  right  had  he  to  take  possession  of  her  soul,  and  then  cast 
her  off  coldly  to  this  "  beggarly  divorcement"  ? 

"  What  does  he  imagine  will  become  of  me  ?  "  she  said  to  her- 
Belf._  "  I  suppose  he  thinks  I  shall  marry  Lord  Paulyn  in  spite 
of  his  warning,  and  be  miserable  for  ever  afterwards.  Or  does 
he  think  I  shall  repent  my  sins  and  join  some  Protestant  sister- 
nood ;  OT  die  broken-hearted  because  of  his  unkindness  ?  0,  if 
I  could  only  die!  He  might  be  sorry,  perhaps,  for  that;  if  the 
news  of  my  death  ever  reached  his  distant  world ;  or  if  he  were 
to  come  back  to  this  place  some  day,  and  find  my  grave  in  the 
churchyard,  and  discover  at  last  that  I  loved  him  well  enough 
to  die  of  his  desertion." 

SKD  OF  BOOK  TU£  SSCONO. 


btrangers  and  Pilgrims.  237 

ISooft  ttiP  Zl)ixi. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"  I  am  weary  of  my  part. . 
My  torch  is  out,  and  the  world  stands  before  mo 
Like  a  black  desert." 

TnRiCB  liaB  the  com  ripened  on  the  hillsides  and  in  the  valleyt 
round  Hawleigh ;  thrice  have  come  and  gone  all  the  pleasant 
eights  and  sweet  sounds  of  summer — dog-roses  blooming  out 
their  bright  brief  life  in  the  tangled  hedgerows ;  honeysuckle 
scenting  the  mild  air  of  early  autumn,  and  lingering  late  as  if 
loth  to  leave  the  earth  it  adorned.  Thrice  have  come  the  snows 
and  rains  Jiad  general  discomforts  of  winter — the  conventional 
jovialities  of  Christmas,  church  decorations,  charity  dinners, 
infant-school  festivities,  the  annual  cakes  and  ale,  the  slow- 
passing  Lent,  while  the  chilly  new-fledged  spring  flutters  its 
weak  wings  timidly,  like  a  tender  bird  too  soon  expelled  from  its 
nest  into  a  bleak  world.  All  the  seasons,  with  their  unvarying 
duties — the  same  things  to  be  done  over  and  over  again  every 
year — have  come  and  gone  three  times,  and  still  Gertrude 
trudges  to  and  fro  among  her  poor,  scattering  leaflets  of  consola- 
tion in  the  shape  of  small  gray-paper-covered  tracts;  and  still 
Diana  embroiders  a  little  and  sketches  a  little,  and  yawns  and 
indulges  her  constitutional  headache  a  great  deal,  and  laments 
languidly  that  the  Luttrells  are  not  a  particularly  fortunate 
family ;  and  still  Blanche,  the  pert  and  livel}',  demands  of  the 
unanswering  skies  when  Providence  is  going  to  do  something  for 
the  Luttrells. 

There  have  been  changes,  however,  at  Hawleigh.  One,  a 
dismal  change  from  the  warmth  and  brightness  of  a  comfortable 
easy-going  life  to  the  darkness  and  blankness  of  the  grave.  That 
good  easy  man,  Wilmot  Luttrell,  has  slipped  out  of  existence  almost 
as  easily  as  he  slipped  through  it.  His  daughters  found  him  in  his 
etudy  one  dark  November  morning,  two  years  ago,  stricken  with 
paralysis  and  a  partial  death,  I'rom  which  he  was  never  to  recover. 
He  lingered  long  in  this  doubtful  state,  helpless,  patient,  mild  aa 
he  had  evei  been ;  was  tenderly  nursed  by  the  four  girls,  who 
had  at  least  agreed  in  loving  tlieir  father  dearly  at  the  last — had 
lingered  and  been  conscious  of  their  love  and  care,  until  a 
second  stroke  made  all  a  blank.  From  this  he  never  revived, 
but  expired  in  that  dull  sleep,  unconscious  of  the  end ;  so  closing 
a  life  which  had  been  as  gentle  and  harmless  as  a  child's. 

This  loss — a  profound  affliction  itself — was  made  all  the 
heavier  by  the  fact  that  it  left  the  four  girls  a  difiicult  problem 


238  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

to  solve  in  the  one  all-important  question  how  they  were  to  liva 
The  entire  fortune  which  their  father  left  behind  him  amounted 
to  at -jut  three  hundred  a  year,  exclusive  of  the  Vicarage  furni- 
ture, which,  in  its  decrepitude  and  shabbiness,  may  have  been 
worth  something  less  than  a  hundred  pounds,  and  the  Vicarage 
plate,  worth  a  hundred  more.  With  this  income,  and  these  ha- 
ngings, the  girls  had  to  begin  life  for  themselves.  Aunt 
d'hevenix  came  to  the  rescue  with  an  oflFer  of  a  hundred  a  year 
fiom  her  owi;  purse,  and  advised  that  Elizabeth  should  come  to 
live  with  her,  and  the  three  other  girls  go  abroad  somewhere,  say 
Brussels  or  the  south  of  France,  where  they  could  live  genteelly 
and  improve  their  minds,  thereby  escajang  the  loss  of  caste  in- 
volved in  any  alteration  of  their  style  of  Kving  at  Hawleigh. 
But  to  this  they  all  objected.  Elizabeth  thanked  her  aunt  for 
tht!  offer  of  a  home  in  Eaton-place,  but  preferred  to  remain 
•V7,'^ere  she  was.  "  You  would  "oon  grow  tired  of  me,"  she  wrote, 
"  '/hen  you  discover  how  dreary  a  companion  I  now  am.  And 
forgive  me  for  saying  it,  auntie,  but  your  house  was  unlucky  to 
me.     I  could  not  re-enter  it  without  a  feeling  of  horror." 

Gertrude  expressed  her  gratitude  somewhat  stiffly ;  declined 
to  entertain  the  idea  of  lifelong  banishment  for  the  sake  of  gen- 
tility ;  hoped  that  she  could  more  profitably  improve  her  mind 
by  the  performance  of  her  duties  at  Hawleigh  than  by  the  culti- 
vation of  any  new  accomplishments  at  Brussels  or  Lyons ;  was 
not  ashamed  of  any  diminution  of  style  or  luxury  which  their 
altered  circumstances  might  call  for ;  thanked  Heaven  she  could 
live  as  contentedly  beneath  the  humblest  roof  as  beneath  the 
loftiest ;  and  farther  informed  her  aunt  that,  with  the  consent 
of  her  sisters,  she  had  decided  on  taking  one  of  the  small 
semi-detached  villas,  with  bay-windows  and  nice  little  gardens, 
in  the  Boroughbridge-road.  The  furniture  from  the  Vicarage, 
such  of  it  as  was  adaj>ted  to  this  new  abode,  they  would  retain  ; 
also  the  tea-kettle,  which  was  so  touching  a  memorial  of  all 
they  had  lost. 

Mrs.  Chevenix  shuddered  as  she  read  these  two  letters.  Her 
nieces  in  a  semi-detached  villa,  at  thirty-tive  pounds  a  year,  in  a 
row  of  other  semi-detached  villas  of  the  same  pattern  !  What 
a  change  from  the  fine  old  Vicarage,  with  its  ins  and  outs  and 
ups  and  downs,  sunny  bow  windows,  magnolia  and  myrtle 
shrouded  walls,  its  quaint  old  tower,  everlasting  memorial  of 
ancient  splendour,  its  wide  flower-garden  and  grassy  orchard, 
sloping  to  the  setting  sun.  What  a  change !  And  Gertrude 
wrote  of  it  as  coolly  as  if  it  were  nothing. 

"  I  think  my  poor  brother  might  have  left  me  the  tea-kettle," 
thought  Mrs.  Chevenix-.  "it  would  have  been  very  useful  for 
afternoon  tea,  and  it  would  have  gone  back  to  the  girls  after- 
wards." 


Strangers  and  Filgrims.  239 

She  pondered  upon  Elizabeth's  letter  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it  is  nothing  but  the  truth;  the  girl  is 
sadly  changed.  I  hardly  know  if  1  should  be  able  to  do  any- 
thing for  her  now.  All  her  animation  is  gone ;  and  she  has 
acquired  a  proud  reserved  manner  that  would  repel  any  one  who 
was  ever  so  much  inclined  to  admire  her.  She  is  handsome 
rtill ;  but  she  certainly  has  contrived  to  render  herself  as  unattrac- 
tive as  it  is  possible  for  a  handsome  young  woman  to  be.  Did 
ever  any  girl  throw  away  such  chances  as  she  has  had  P  " 

This  meditation  was  the  result  of  a  retrospective  glance  at 
affairs  during  ]\Irs.  Chevenix's  last  visit  to  Hawleigh,  in  the 
autumn  before  her  brother's  death.  Lord  Paulyn  had  been  at 
Ashccmbe  during  that  time,  and  had  come  frequently  to  the 
Vicarage,  and  done  his  best  to  renew  his  old  intimacy  with 
Elizabeth  Luttrell.  But  to  all  these  friendly  endeavours  the 
girl  had  opposed  a  dead  blank  wall  of  coldness  and  reserve.  Mrs. 
Chevenix  tried  to  gloss  over  this  uncomfortable  aspect  of  affairs, 
and  to  convince  the  lover  that  his  suit  was  not  yet  hopeless; 
but  it  was  in  vain  for  the  wily  matron  to  soothe  and  argue.  The 
young  man  answered  her  with  smothered  anger. 

"There's  no  use  in  talking  nonsense,  Mi-s.  Chevenix,"  he  said ; 
"  she  has  not  forgetten  that  parson  fellow  yet,  ^nd  I  suppose 
Bhe  never  means  to  forget  him.  What  a  pity  you  didn't  let  her 
have  her  own  way  and  go  out  with  him,  and  devote  herself  to 
the  evangelisation  of  South-Sea  Islanders!  I  wish  with  all  my 
heart  she  had  gone ;  for  then  I  couldn't  have  made  a  fool  of 
myself  hanging  auoni,  iiere,  and  exposing  myself  to  the  sneers 
of  Hilda  Disney  and  my  mother." 

"  I  cannot  see  that  the  affair  is  any  business  of  Miss  Disney's," 
Mrs.  Chevenix  remarked  with  some  hauteur.  How  dared  that 
independent  young  person  to  cross  the  woof  of  her  schemes ! 

"  Aliss  Disney  has  so  little  business  of  her  own,  that  she's 
obliged  to  think  of  somebody  else's,"  replied  the  Viscount 
moodily.  "Why  don't  you  bring  her  to  London,  ma'am?" 
meaning  Elizabeth,  and  not  Miss  Disney.  "You  might  cure 
her  of  this  wretched  infatuation  there.  I  suppose  she  has  the 
fellow's  photograph,  and  kisses  and  cries  over  it  every  night." 

"  She  has  a  great  deal  too  much  self-respect  for  that  kind  of 
thing,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix,  as  if  she  had  been  inside  Elizabeth's 
brain,  and  inspected  its  cellular  arrangements. 

It  is  possible  that  this  suggestion  of  Lord  Paulyn's  may  have 
had  some  intluence  with  Mrs.  Chevenix  when  she  offered  Eliza- 
beth a  permanent  shelter  in  Eaton-place.  That  offer  being 
rejected,  she  could  only  shrug  her  shoulders  and  resign  herself 
to  circumstances.  The  luxurious  ease  of  her  own  existence,  the 
cscent-bottle  and  green  fan,  made  a  power'"ul  armour  against  the 
elings  and  arrows  of  other  people's  bad  fortune     If  her  favourite 


240  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

niece  preferred  obscure  poverty  to  rank  and  wealth,  she  must 
needs  indulge  her  humour. 

"After  all,  it  makes  no  real  difference  to  me,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. "  I  only  lose  the  indirect  advantage  of  connection  with 
the  peerage.  Such  an  alliance  must  have  given  me  the  entrep- 
to  the  very  best  society;  and  I  feel  that  I  could  have  been  of 
the  greatest  use  to  a  young  woman  suddenly  elevated  to  such  a 
position.     But  it  is  idle  to  regret  the  decrees  of  Providence." 

So  Mrs.  Chevenix  resigned  herself  to  the  inevitable,  thanked 
Heaven  that  she  possessed  a  good  cook  and  a  faultless  dress- 
maker, and  went  her  way  calmly  rejoicing,  knowing  no  weariness 
of  that  unvarying  round  of  tea-drinkings  and  dinner-eatings 
and  at  homes  which  she  called  good  society.  But  she  seldom 
omitted  to  search  her  Morning  Post  for  any  small  record  of 
Lord  Paulyn's  existence  that  might  perchance  adorn  its  columns, 
and  she  even  went  so  far  as  to  subscribe  to  a  fashionable  sporting 
newspaper  which  was  more  frequently  graced  by  his  lordship'a 
name. 

Life  seemed  new  and  strange  to  Elizabeth  in  the  semi-detatched 
villa  on  the  Boroughbridge-road,  strange  with  a  bitter  strange- 
ness. A  lofty  soul  should  be,  doubtless,  independent  of  its 
eai-thly  dwelling-place.  "My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is;" 
"  Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make,  nor  iron  bars  a  cage."  Very 
noble  sentiments  in  their  way,  but  not  given  to  the  common 
herd  of  humanity.  Elizabeth's  soul  was  not  so  lofty  as  to  rise 
superior  to  the  influences  of  her  habitation.  She  felt  the  change 
of  tenement  sorely,  felt  like  some  lost  creature  in  the  squara 
bandboxical  rooms,  the  prim  narrow  passage  with  its  pert  gas- 
lamp,  the  steep  straight  stairs  smelling  of  copal  varnish ;  almost 
as  ill  at  ease  as  some  wild  denizen  of  the  forest  that  had  been 
shifted,  from  the  vast  cavern  where  he  roamed  and  rolled  at  large, 
to  some  straitened  den  in  a  zoological  garden. 

And  the  Vicarage  furniture,  objects  which,  from  old  associa- 
tion, these  girls  loved  dearly,  how  mean  and  shabby  and  wobe- 
gone  that  poor  old  furniture  looked  in  the  new  smart  rooms,  with 
their  cheap  modern  paj^jer-hanging,  and  trumpery  cornices,  and 
sprawling  plaster  roses  in  the  centre  of  their  ceilings  !  The 
old  cracked  Chelsea  shepherd  and  shepherdesss,  which  had 
seemed  the  natural  ornaments  of  the  tall  narrow  wooden  mantel- 
shelf in  the  Vicarage  drawing-room,  had  the  forlornest  air  upon 
the  polished  marble  slab  in  the  new  house.  Diana's  grand 
piano  filled  the  small  back  drawing-room,  the  big  old  cane- 
seatcd  sofa  blocked  the  bay-window  in  the  front  drawing-room. 
Nothing  fitted  into  an  embrasure,  or  adapted  itself  to  the  shape 
of  the  rooms;  and  it  was  only  when  Gertrude  brought  that 
inestimable  quality  which  she  called  her  common  scHse,  and 


Strangers  and  Pilf/rims.  241 

which  Bfanche  called  her  domineering  way,  to  bear  upon  the 
subject,  and  by  banishing  this  article  and  shifting  the  other, 
reduced  the  rooms  to  something  like  order,  that  they  became 
simply  habitable.  Graceful,  or  elegant,  or  picturesque  they 
never  would  be.  Had  the  new  tenants  been  able  to  buy  bright 
modern  furniture,  on  a  toyshop  scale,  they  might  have  endued 
the  rooms  with  a  certain  doU's-house  prettiness ;  but  the  salvage 
from  the  Vicarage  looked  what  it  was,  the  poor  remnant  of 
departed  fortune. 

There  was  a  room  downstairs,  under  the  back  drawing-room, 
half  sunk  in  the  earth,  but  provided  with  a  small  bay-window 
and  a  sham  marble  mantelpiece,  and  described  by  the  house 
agent  as  a  breakfast-room.  This  the  Miss  Luttrells  made  their 
refectory. 

"  Of  course,  in  a  decent  house  it  would  be  the  housekeeper's 
room,"  said  Blanche,  the  aay  she  first  dined  in  this  earthy 
chamber.  "  I  shall  always  feel  as  if  we  were  cheating  the  ser- 
vants out  of  their  natural  rights  by  occupying  it  " 

Thus  began  their  new  lives.  Every  one  caiied  upon  them, 
and  admired  their  new  abode,  and  discussed  the  new  Vicar,  and 
sympathised  and  approved  and  consoled.  And  Gertrude  pro- 
nounced with  satisfaction  that  their  social  status  remained 
firm  as  a  rock.  They  had  two  servants,  one  an  irreproachable 
parlour-maid,  who  was  never  seen  without  a  starched  muslin 
apron,  and  everything  was  done  in  the  nicest  manner.  They 
had  a  garden  which  might  have  been  covered  by  a  good- sized 
turkey  carpet,  but  which  was  laid  out  in  the  last  approved 
style :  liower-beds  of  the  tesselated-pavement  pattern ;  scrolls 
and  parallelograms,  and  open-tart  designs  done  in  plants  of  the 
housejeek  and  mouse-ear  tribes;  jam-tart  patterns  in  scarlet 
geranium  and  brown  leafage,  lobelia  and  petunia,  after  the  m.an- 
ner  of  the  Duchess  of  Wiltshire's  parterre  at  the  Cottage  near 
Havistock.  It  is  astonishing  what  great  effects  may  be  pro- 
duced in  the  area  of  a  turkey  carpet  by  a  young  lady  of  Gertrude 
Luttrell's  temperament. 

"  There  is  no  one  more  ready  to  make  sacrifices,"  she  said 
complacently,     "  But  whatever  I  have  must  be  of  the  best." 

To  say  that  Elizabeth  lived  in  this  circumscribed  home 
K-ould  be  to  say  too  much.  She  existed — as  toads  have  been 
believed  to  exist  locked  in  marble,  or  comfortably  niched  in  a 
block  of  coal.  Yet  not  so  patiently  as  these  quiescent  reptiles 
did  she  bear  her  fate.  Her  Hps  were  mute,  it  is  true,  for  she 
had  a  scornful  impatience  of  sisterly  consolation,  but  her  soul 
complained  perpetually.  Like  Job,  she  remonstrated  with  her 
Maker,  and  demanded  why  she  was  not  permitted  to  die.  All 
the  anguish  of  this  slow  dull  year  had  not  been  enough  even  to 
undermine  Uer  vigorous  young  life.      There  was  scarcely  the 


242  Strangers  an^  Pilgrims. 

depression  of  a  muscle  in  the  firm  round  white  arms,  no 
cavernous  hollows  spoiled  her  oval  cheeks.  She  was  paler  than 
of  old ;  that  fugitive  colour  which  had  come  and  gone  in  such 
flashes  of  brightness  two  years  ago  was  rarely  seen  now ;  her 
eyelids  had  a  heavy  look  that  hinted  of  sleepless  nights ;  but 
these  were  all  the  outward  changes  that  had  been  wrought  by 
Malcolm  Forde's  abandonment  and  her  father's  death. 

"  I  never  could  have  believed  I  loved  my  father  so  much," 
she  said  to  herself  sadly,  one  dismal  December  afternoon, 
when  she  had  taken  a  lonely  walk  as  far  as  the  road  before  the 
Vicarage,  and  had  seen  the  fire-glow  shining  through  the  old- 
fashioned  casement  of  her  father's  study.  She  had  stood 
for  a  little  while  looking  across  the  lawn  at  that  cheery  glow, 
with  an  aching  heart,  a  heart  that  seemed  to  ache  from  very 
emptiness. 

"  My  Uttle  world  has  vanished  like  a  dream,"  she  thought, 
"  the  waters  have  swept  over  it,  and  left  me  standing  on  a 
Darren  rock  in  a  great  pathless  sea.  If  I  could  only  die,  like 
papa,  and  make  an  end  of  it !  " 

Among  those  pleasing  testimonies  of  the  world's  esteem 
which  were  ofTered  to  the  sisters  at  this  sad  juncture  was  a 
ceremonious  call  from  Lady  Paulyn  and  Hilda  Disney.  The 
two  ladies  drove  over  from  Ashcombe  one  afternoon  in  the 
ancient  chariot,  conducted  by  a  postilion,  who  had  the  aspect  of 
a  farm-labourer  in  disguise,  but  at  the  same  time  looked  more 
imposing  than  a  coachman. 

Hilda  had  her  customary  air  of  ladylike  indiff'erence,  but  the 
dowager  peered  and  pryed,  and  expressed  profoundest  interest 
in  the  afi'airs  of  the  four  sisters. 

"  And  you  really  think  of  remaining  in  this  pretty  little 
house,"  she  said  with  a  gracious  wonder,  peering  at  them  keenly 
from  under  her  shaggy  old  eyebrows  all  the  while,  and  peering 
especially  at  Elizabeth.  "  Do  you  know  I'm  rather  surprised 
at  that.  1  5BTonld  have  thought  this  pokey  old  town  would 
have  been  insutierable  to  you  all  alter  your  loss,  and  that  some 
nice  place  abroad  would  have  suited  you  better,  where  you  could 
have  had  a  little  pleasant  English  societ}'-  in  the  nice  inexpen- 
sive continental  stjde — Bruges  for  instance,  or  Courtrai — I've 
heard  there  are  English  people  at  both  those  towns ;  or  Dijon,  or 
some  retired  little  German  town  where  things  are  cheap." 

"  I  have  duties  and  pleasures  at  Hawleigh  which  I  could 
never  have  in  a  Roman  Catholic  town,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  There  seems  to  be  a  prevailing  idea  that  transportation  for 
life  is  the  only  remedy  for  our  grief,"  said  Elizabeth,  not  a  little 
contemptuously.  "  I  wonder  our  friends  don't  suggest  Nor- 
folk Island  or  Botany  Bay  at  once.  Or,  since  transportation  ia 
abolished,  the  government  ought  to  erect  a  special  building  at 


Strangers  and  Pilgrms.  243 

Portland  (jt  Dartmoor  for  young  women  who  are  left  alone  in 
the  world  " 

The  dowager  vouchsafed  no  reply  to  these  impertinent 
observations,  but  she  gave  Elizabeth  a  look  from  beneath 
those  bristling  penthouses  which  was  not  one  of  supreme 
aflPection. 

"  You  hiiven't  asked  after  my  sou,  Miss  Luttrell,"  she  said, 
turning  sharply  upon  Gertrude,  after  rather  an  awkward  pause, 
daring  which  Miss  Disney  had  looked  straight  out  of  the  win- 
dow with  an  absent  air,  as  if  she  had  been  assisting  at  a  visit 
to  cottagers  in  whose  spiritual  or  temi^oral  welfare  she  had  no 
personal  interest. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon."  stammered  Gertrude,  confused  by  thia 
sharp  attack.     "  I  hope  Lord  Paulyn  is  well." 

"  He  is  very  well,  and  I  hope  he  is  on  the  high  road  to  being 
very  happy." 

Blanche,  having  nothing  particular  to  do,  and  not  feeling 
herself  called  upon  to  sustain  any  part  in  the  conversation, 
happened  to  be  amusing  herself  by  the  contemplation  of  Misa 
Disney.  She  saw  the  fair  cold  face  flush,  and  the  thin  lips  con- 
tract themselves  ever  so  little  at  this  moment. 

"  I  suppose  that  means  that  he  is  going  to  be  married,"  said 
Diana;  "  if  one  may  be  allowed  to  hazard  a  guess." 

"  How  quick  you  young  ladies  are  when  marriage  is  in  ques- 
tion ! "  replied  the  dowager  graciously.  "  Yes,  I  have  every 
reason  to  hope  that  Reginald  has  at  last  made  up  his  mind 
to  settle.  It  will  be  such  a  happiness  to  me  if  he  can 
only  be  induced  to  give  up  that  horrid  racing  stud,  his  place 
near  Newmarket,  and  his  dreadfully  expensive  stables  in  l^ork- 
shire ;  but  if  he  can't  be  persuaded  to  so  wise  a  step,  he  will  at 
any  rate  be  better  able  to  afford  to  ruin  himself  The  young 
lady  to  whom  he  is  almost  engaged  is  one  of  the  richest 
heiresses  in  England.  She  has  not  rank,  I  admit;  but  the 
oppression  of  the  income-tax  has  long  since  stamped  out  my 
Conservative  proclivities.  I  have  no  prejudices.  Miss  Luttrell, 
ond  can  appreciate  the  grandeur  of  position  attained  by  a 
man  who  began  hfe  by  wheeling  barrows,  and  could  now  write 
a  cheque  for  a  hundred  thousand  pouuds  without  feeling  him- 
self any  poorer  when  it  had  been  cleared.  That  is  what  I  call 
true  nobility." 

"  The  barrowB  or  the  cheque-book,  Lady  Paulyn  P "  asked 
Elizabeth. 

"  The  upward  progress  from  one  point  to  the  other,"  replied 
the  dowager  with  dignity.  "  I  am  told  that  Mr.  Ramsay,  the 
great  contractor,  eats  peas  with  his  knife,  and  is  somewhat  the 
slave  of  habit  in  the  matter  of  not  cleaning  his  nails.  But  I 
hope  I  have  a  soul  above  such  trivialities.    Nothing  would  give 


244  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

me  greater  pleasure  than  to  welcome  Mr.  Ramsay's  only  cliilsi 
as  my  daugliter." 

Having  made  tliis  announcement,  and  even  deigned  to  re- 
fresh herself  with  macaroons  and  cherry  brandy  (made  two 
summers  ago  with  the  dear  old  Vicarage  cherries  from  the 
orchard  Eh/i'  eth  loved),  Lady  Paulyn  departed.  But  not 
before  she  had  again  expressed  her  wonder  that  the  Miss  Lut- 
trells  should  prefer  Hawleigh  to  a  delightful  Belgian  town,  with 
canals  and  stiff  little  avenues,  where  they  might  pace  to  and 
fro,  and  sit  on  benches,  unjostled  by  a;^y  vulgar  crowd;  or  such 
a  place  as  Dijon,  which  must  surely  be  a  most  agreeable  town 
for  English  residents,  since  the  very  name  had  quite  a  romantio 
sound.  The  dowager  Hngered  so  long  to  discuss  these  points 
after  she  had  risen  to  take  her  departure,  that  it  was  dusk  when 
the  chariot  went  jingling  off,  to  the  delight  of  the  adjacent 
villas. 

"  It  was  really  very  good  of  her  to  come,"  said  Gertrude, 
watching  the  departing  equipage  complacently  from  the  bay- 
window.  "  What  a  noise  that  postilion  makes !  It  is  a  satis- 
faction to  let  our  new  neighbours  see  we  are  on  visiting  terms 
with  the  best  county  people.  I  trust  I  am  above  attaching  an 
undue  value  to  these  things :  but  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  igno- 
rant of  their  influence." 

"  Good  of  her,  indeed  ! "  cried  Blanche  indignantly.  "  Horrid 
old  thing !  Anybody  could  see  that  she  came  to  crow  over 
Lizzie.  Wicked  old  sne-miser !  I  do  verily  believe  she  would 
like  her  son  to  marry  the  only  daughter  of  Beelzebub  if  she 
had  plenty  of  money." 

"  What  a  pity  you  didn't  many  him  when  you  had  the  op- 
portunity, and  keep  mamma's  pearl  necklace,  Lizzie!"  Diana 
said,  with  a  yawn.  "  It  would  have  been  advancement  for  all 
of  us.  And  here  we  are  screwed  up  for  life,  I  suppose,  in  this 
pokey  little  house,  instead  of  having  the  run  of  half-a-dozen 
splendid  places. — Ring  for  tea,  Blanche,  please.  If  it  were  not 
for  the  comfort  of  our  early  cup  of  tea,  I  should  be  almost  tired 
of  life." 

"  Almost  tired  !  I  hnve  hardly  ever  ceased  to  be  tired  of  it 
eince  I  was  seventeen,"  exclaimed  Elizabeth  with  infinite  scorn. 

"  Only  for  one  brief  bright  summer  time  of  love  and  hope," 
she  thought,  by  way  of  rider  to  that  contemptuous  speech. 

She  was  silent  for  the  rest  of  that  evening,  silting  idle  in  a 
shadowy  corner  apart,  while  the  other  three  clustered  round 
the  lamp;  Diana  and  Blanche  engaged  in  elaborate  fancy-work, 
which  gave  occasion  for  perjietual  discussions  about  jioint  de 
Venise,  and  Sorrento  bars;  Gertrude  absorbed  in  a  pious  bio- 
graphy, from  which  she  read  stray  passages  now  and  then  for 
the  edification  of  her  sisters.    It  was  not  a  lively  evening,  any 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  21-5 

more  than  the  rest  of  the  evenings  which  these  young  women 
ppent  together  in  the  nnfamiliar  drawing-room,  with  its  linger- 
ing odour  of  size  and  plaster-of- Paris ;  but  tlicir  manner  of  life 
seemed  to  Elizabeth  just  a  little  more  dreary  than  usual  to-night. 

She  was  meditating  upon  all  she  had  lost — in  love  and  am- 
bition alike  bankrupt;  of  all  the  dreams  that  she  had  dreamed, 
from  her  early  visions  of  pomp  and  pleasure  with  some  unknown 
being  who  should  arise  out  of  space,  like  king  Cophetua,  at  the 
right  moment,  and  lift  her  up  to  the  high  places  of  the  earth, 
to  her  later  and  more  womanly  dream  of  sweet  sacrifices  made 
for  the  man  she  loved.  And  she  had  lost  all.  Of  these  much- 
cherished  dreams  there  had  come  no  fulfilment;  and  being  older 
and  wiser  now,  and  having  lost  the  faculty  of  dreaming,  there 
was  nothing  left  her  but  the  dull  realities  of  the  waking  world 
as  represented  by  a  trim  little  newly-built  villa  in  the  Borough- 
bridge-road. 

"  If  I  had  been  wiser,  I  suppose  I  should  have  fallen  back 
upon  my  old  ideas  of  life  when  JMalcolm  Forde  flung  me  off, 
and  married  Lord  Paulyn,"  she  thought.  "  A  word  would  have 
brought  him  back  to  me.  But  now  even  that  miserable  alterna- 
tive is  lost,  and  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  but  life  for  ever  and 
ever  shut  up  in  this  nan-ow  den  with  my  sisters.  I  might  go 
and  live  with  aunt  Chevenix,  certainly ;  but  that  would  be  just 
a  little  worse.  I  have  lost  all  taste  for  the  kind  of  society  my 
aunt  is  so  fond  of,  and  I  should  have  less  liberty  there  than 
I  have  here." 

She  thought  a  good  deal  about  Lord  Paulyn  that  night — 
not  30  much  of  him  individually  as  of  all  that  he  could 
have  given  her — the  grandeur,  the  independence,  the  power; 
that  strong  wine  of  pleasure  which,  if  not  happiness,  was  at 
least  intoxication ;  that  ideal  existence  among  beautiful  scenes, 
or  surrounded  with  all  the  graces  of  art  and  luxury,  the 
very  dream  of  which  had  been  fair  enough  to  brighten  her  life 
in  days  gone  by.  He  had  offered  her  all  these  things,  and  she 
had  rejected  them,  without  a  pang,  for  the  love  of  Malcolm  Forde. 

" Aiid  how  noble  a  return  he  made  me  for  my  constancy!" 
she  thought  bitterly,  with  more  anger  against  her  lost  lover  than 
flhe  had  felt  for  a  long  time. 

After  this,  she  thought  very  often  about  the  brilliant  position 
she  had  rejected,  and  for  the  first  time  thought  of  it  with 
a  vague  regret.  It  was  in  her  nature  to  hol-d  a  treasure  lightly 
so  long  as  it  lay  at  hor  feet,  and  to  appreciate  it  when  it  was 
lost  to  her.  She  had  scorned  the  idea  of  a  marriage  with  Lord 
Paulyn,  while  that  faithful  admirer  had  shown  himself  eager 
And  devoted.  She  wondered  a  little  at  her  own  foolishness  now 
that  he  was  about  to  unite  himself  with  some  one  else. 

There  may  have  been  more  excuse,  perhaps,  for  these  sordid 


246  Strangers  and  TiJgrim$. 

thoughts  in  the  joylessness  of  her  present  existence.  Her  life 
was  so  utterly  barren — every  morning  the  beginning  of  a  day 
which  must  needs  be  the  repetition  of  yesterday — the  to- 
moiTows  stretching  before  her  blank  as  the  pages  of  an  unused 
memorandum-book. 

It  is  true  that  she  might  have  occupied  herself,  like  Gertrude, 
in  visiting  the  sick  and  poor,  since  she  was  gifted  with  the 
power  of  winning  their  confidence  and  even  their  aifection. 
But  she  avoided  this  natural  source  of  lonely  spinsterhood  with 
an  obstinate  aversion.  What !  go  among  these  people  whom 
she  had  served  for  his  sake?  Ally  herself  with  the  last  new 
curate,  a  pale-faced  slip  of  a  man  with  sandy  whiskers  ? 
Descend  to  all  the  trivialities  of  the  district-visiting  community 
now  that  Ms  godhke  form  no  longer  moved  among  that  com- 
mon herd  ?     This  was  what  she  could  not  do. 

Even  the  grave  old  churches,  in  which  she  had  sat  from  her 
youth  upwards,  were  distasteful  to  her.  Their  aspect  reminded 
her  too  keenly  of  all  she  had  lost — the  good  harmless  father — ■ 
the  lover  she  had  loved  so  madly.  She  seemed  to  hear  the  echo 
of  voices  that  sounded  in  those  stony  aisles  no  more. 

The  new  Vicar  was  a  pompous  red-faced  man,  who  very 
rarely  fatigued  himself  with  the  litany  or  lessons,  and  who  read 
the  communion  service  in  a  fat  voice,  as  if  he  had  taken 
the  ten  commandments  under  his  especial  protection,  and 
preached  sermons  on  abstruse  doctrinal  points  over  the  heads  of 
his  flock.  The  Vicar's  wife  was  young  and  fashionable,  and 
put  the  simple  Hawleigh  folks  to  shame  by  the  elegance  of  her 
attire.  She  had  essayed  to  patronise  the  Miss  Luttrells,  and 
had  told  them  about  the  changes  she  meant  to  make  by-and-by 
in  that  dreadful  barn  the  Vicarage,  and  had  congratulated 
them  on  their  transference  from  that  ancient  tenement  to 
a  modern  habitation.  Diana  and  this  lady  got  on  very  well 
together,  but  between  the  Vicaress  and  Elizabeth  there  prevailed 
a  quiet  antipathy. 

It  was,  douotless,  her  own  fault  that  Elizabeth  was  lonely. 
Her  sisters  had  their  little  batches  of  dear  friends,  and  visited 
a  good  deal  in  a  quiet  way  soon  after  their  father's  death, 
and  entertained  their  acquaintance  with  afternoon  tea;  but 
jRlizabeth's  soul  rebelled  against  this  humdrum  sociality ;  her 
footsteps  refused  to  tread  this  beaten  track  of  every-day  pro- 
vincial life.  She  preferred  lonely  wanderings  in  the  very  teeth 
of  January's  north-easters,  on  the  common  and  in  the  tamiliar 
lanes  where  she  had  walked  so  joyously  with  her  lover  in 
the  brief  sweet  days  of  courtship. 

If  she  had  cherished  the  faintest  hope  of  his  return  to  her, 
she  might  have  been  patient,  she  might  have  endured  the 
weariness  of  the  present,  cheered  by  a  fair  vision  of  the  future. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.       "  247 

But  she  deluded  herself  with  no  such  hope.  She  had,  on  the 
contrary,  a  settled  conviction  that,  once  having  put  his  hand  to 
the  plough,  for  Malcolm  Forde  there  would  be  no  turning  back- 
ward. She  had  lured  him  for  a  little  while  out  of  his  chosen 
path  ;  but  having  broken  loose  from  her  feeble  snare,  he  was  the 
very  last  of  men  to  return  to  the  net. 

"  He  was  always  soiTy  that  he  loved  me,"  she  thought,  "  and 
there  was  a  look  of  rapture  on  his  face  when  he  preached 
his  farewell  sermon,  hke  the  joy  of  a  man  who  has  escaped  from 
a  great  peril." 

Thej  heard  no  more  of  Lord  Paulyn's  approaching  marriage, 
standing  almost  alone,  so  far  as  Hawleigh  proper  went,  in  the 
proud  i^rivilege  of  the  dowager's  acquaintance;  but  Gertrude 
and  Diana  were  not  slow  to  retail  the  news  in  their  morning 
calls  and  five-o'clock  teas.  ]\liss  Ramsay  and  her  possessions 
were  enlarged  upon — the  husbands  and  brothers  referred  to  as 
authorities  upon  the  commercial  world — every  one  having  his 

f)et  theory  as  to  which  Eamsay  was  the  great  Eamsay,  who 
lad begun  by  wheeling  barrows;  one  party  clinging  tenaciously 
to  a  certain  Peter  Ramsay,  Son,  and  Bilge,  proprietors  of  the 
famous  Red  Cross  steam-packet  line ;  and  another  pinning  its 
faith  to  Alexander  Ramsay,  the  great  contractor.  Fashionable 
newspapers  were  watched,  but  shed  no  light  ^\pon  the  subject, 
nor  did  the  local  journals  give  tongue. 

"  1  don't  believe  there's  a  syllable  of  truth  in  the  whole 
^tory,"  exclaimed  the  outspoken  Blanche  during  one  of  these 
discussions,  from  which  Elizabeth  was  absent.  "I  daresay  it's 
all  that  nasty  old  woman's  invention.  Lord  Paulyn  was 
desperately  in  love  with  my  sister  Lizzie,  and  made  her  ever 
so  many  otfers.  And  she,  wicked  old  thing,  wants  us  all  to  go 
and  bury  ourselves  in  some  dead-and-alive  Belgian  town,  where 
we  should  be  driven  mad  by  the  carillon  ringing  every  half- 
hour  from  the  rickety  old  church-towers." 

Miss  Luttrell  reproved  her  sister  severely  for  the  impropriety 
of  these  remarks,  and  the  company  generally  looked  incredulous. 
It  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  any  reasonable  being  would 
believe  in  Elizabeth's  rejection  of  the  Lord  of  Ashcombe.  He 
might  have  hung  about  her  a  good  deal — compromising  her  by 
his  attentions,  to  the  rui:)tnre  of  that  foolish  engagement  with 
dear  Mr.  Forde ;  but  to  suppose  that  he  had  laid  his  coronet  at 
her  feet — that  he  had  said  to  her,  "  Be  mistress  of  Ashcombe 
in  Devon,  and  Harberry  Castle  in  Yorkshire,  the  Grange  near 
Newmarket,  and  the  old  family  mansion  in  St.  James's-square  " 
— and  that  she  had  deliberately  rejected  him — to  believe  this 
was  too  much  for  the  imaginative  power  of  Hawleigh. 

Yet  the  day  came  before  very  long  when  the  eyes  of  HawIeigJi 
were  opened,  and  the  eyebrows  of  Hawleigh  lifted  ji.  STirpassing 

TOPder- 


248  Strangers  and  JPilgrmt. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  0,  the  'ittle  more,  and  how  much  it  is, 
And  rhe  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away  1 " 

The  four  sisters  had  inhabited  the  smart  little  box  on  the 
Boroughbridge-road  about  four  months,  when  Elizabeth's  scanty 
stock  of  patience  came  to  an  end.  Gertrude's  small  despotism, 
Diana's  languors  and  aflectations  and  headaches,  she  could 
abide  no  longer.  She  was  brought  so  much  closer  to  these  evils 
in  that  circumscribed  abode.  She  had  no  hillside  orchard 
whither  to  flee  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  evening,  even  on  cold 
spring  nights,  when  the  young  moon  was  sailing  through  the 
clouds,  and  when  Hawleigh  had  shut  its  shutters  and  lighted  its 
lamps  for  the  night,  and  it  would  have  been  an  outrage  of  all 
the  proprieties  to  go  out  for  a  walk  ;  no  airy  turret,  half  bed- 
chamber and  half  sitting-room,  where  she  could  read  or  muse 
in  solitude;  only  a  neat  little  square  bedroom,  divided  from 
Gertrude's  by  so  fragile  a  partition  that  its  inmates  were  wont 
to  whisper  like  conspirators  in  their  vesper  talk. 

The  Vicar's  death,  too,  had  given  Gertrude  a  new  position  in 
the  home  circle.  She  assumed  the  responsibility  of  their  future 
life.  She  had  chosen  and  taken  the  house,  and  selected  the 
furniture  they  were  to  keep  ;  and  regulated  the  mode  and  man- 
ner of  their  new  life,  which  friends  and  acquaintances  of  the 
past  they  were  chiefly  to  cherish,  and  which  they  were  gently 
and  graciously  to  let  drop.  Gertrude  kept  the  purse  and  the 
keys,  regiilated  the  expenditure,  and  held  possession  of  the 
narrow  store  closets.  The  younger  sisters  could  hardly  order 
an  extra  cup  of  tea  without  permission,  or  breakfast  in  bed  per- 
chance on  a  bleak  winter  mornincr  without  inventinof  some  ail- 
ment  as  an  excuse  for  that  indulgence.  Diana  submitted  from 
^heer  laziness. 

"  I  must  live  with  some  one  who  will  order  my  dinner  and 
pour  out  my  tea  for  me,"  she  said  ;  "  and  it  may  as  well  be  Ger- 
trude as  rvuy  one  else.  I  daresay  if  I  were  rich  enough  to  have 
a  confidential  maid,  she  would  tyrannise  over  me." 

One  day,  towards  the  end  of  March,  Elizabeth  astonished  her 
eisters  by  declaring  her  intention  of  going  abroad  straightway. 

"  I  shall  go  over  to  Dieppe,"  she  said,  "  and  wander  through 
Normandy,  and  then  make  my  way  somehow  to  Belgium — my 
geographical  ideas  are  the  vaguest,  but  I  shall  find  out  every- 
thing when  I  am  there — ^and  then  perhaps  I  shall  go  up  the 
Rhine ;  and  I  don't  think  I  sliall  come  back  till  the  winter.  I 
have  been  reading  up  a  foreign  Bradshaw,  and  making  tre» 


Strangers  and  Pil(jrim9.  249 

iiit-ticlous  caJcnlations  about  ways  and  means.  0,  by  the  bye, 
Grertrn  ',d^  iww  nrucli  have  wc  each  to  live  upon  ?  I  know  I  can 
manage  •vAt\v  it,  for  I  mean  to  do  things  in  a  strong-minded 
economical  way — travelling  third-class,  and  even  walking  from 
one  town  to  another  when  the  distances  are  short ;  and  third- 
class  travelling  is  dirt-cheap  on  the  Continent.  I  shall  wear  no 
fine  washing  dresses,  nothing  more  expensive  than  a  Unsey  gown 
and  a  waterproof  cloak." 

Until  this  moment  Gertrude  had  only  been  able  to  stare. 
Even  the  languid  Diana  dropped  her  novel,  and  looked  her 
astonishment  at  this  wild  proposition. 

"Are  you  mad,  Elizabeth?  "  exclaimed  the  eldest  sister 
sternly ;  "  or  do  you  mean  this  for  a  joke  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  mad,  not  a  wee  bit  wud,  as  the  Scotch  say  " — 
Bhe  had  read  a  httle  of  Burns  with  her  lover — "  and  I  have  long 
left  off  joking.  Pray  don't  look  so  unutterably  shocked,  Gerty. 
I  really  mean  what  I  say.  What  is  the  use  of  all  this  talk 
about  women's  rights  if  one  is  to  be  pent  up  all  one's  life  in  a 

f)lace  like  this  in  order  to  do  homage  to  the  jDroprieties  ?  Haw- 
eigh  is  killing  me  by  inches.  I  shouldn't  at  all  mind  dying,  but 
I  don't  want  to  die  of  slow  poison  ;  and  my  present  life  is  poison 
to  me — worse  than  infinitesimal  doses  of  antimony." 

"  Very  flattering  to  the  relatives  you  live  with,"  suggested 
Gertrude  with  dignity. 

"  0,  I  don't  mean  you  ;  but  this  house,  Hawleigh,  everything. 
Old  Lady  Paulyn  was  right ;  we  ought  to  have  gone  on  the 
Continent.  Not  to  settle  down  in  some  prosy  old  place,  as  she 
suggested,  but  to  wander  about.  People  do  not  half  live  who 
live  in  one  place." 

"  The  roving  existence  you  talk  of  may  be  very  well  for  per- 
sons of  your  impatient  temperament,"  said  Gertrude  ;  "  but  for 
.  my  own  part,  I  could  not  live  without  a  settled  home;  and  I 
believe  that  Diana  and  Blanche    share  my   feelings  on   that 
point." 

"  I'm  not  quite  s"  re  of  that,  Gerty,"  said  the  intractable 
Blanche.  "  Hawleigh  is  very  well  in  its  way,  and  we  know 
plenty  of  people,  attd  are  sure  to  bc^  asked  to  ever  so  many 
croquet-parties  in  the  summer.  But  x  should  dearly  love  roam- 
ing about  the  world  with  Lizzie." 

"  In  a  hnsey  gown  and  a  waterproof?  "  cried  Diana  incredu- 
lously. "  What  would  you  do  with  all  the  time  you  spend  before 
your  looking-^ass  in  that  case  ?  " 

"  I  could  get  on  without  a  looking-glass  if  there  was  some- 
thing worth  living  for,"  said  the  damsel. 

"  Do  not  let  us  descend  to  pueriHties,"  observed  Gertrude, 
with  her  air  of  practical  wisdom.  "  Such  a  mode  of  life  as 
Ehzabetb  suggests  is  quite  out  of  the  question.     Imaginf-  mj 


2,jO  Strangers  and  Pilgrimi. 

sister  wanderiug  about  alone,  in  third-class  carriages,  stopping 
at  second-rate  inns,  exposing  herself  to  insult  from  underbred 
foreigners." 

"  That  is  only  your  insular  prejudice,"  said  Elizabeth.  "  Re- 
member all  the  nice  books  we've  read  about  lady-travellers — 
'  From  Ostendto  the  Tyrol  for  a  Five-pound  Note;'  '  Third- 
class  Passengers  to  the  Jungfrau  ;'  '  Meat- teas  and  Glaciers ;  or 
a  Maiden  Aunt's  Adventures  in  Savoy  ;'  and  so  on.  Those 
books  seem  all  to  be  written  by  unprotected  females  of  limited 
means.  Why  shouldn't  I  get  on  just  as  well  as  other  unpro- 
tected females  ?  " 

•'  If  you  were  forty  years  of  age,  the  idea  might  be  somewhat 
less  preposterous." 

"  Would  it  ?  I  am  sure  I  feel  as  if  I  were  sixty.  But  how- 
ever that  may  be,  I  must  positively  get  away  from  Hawleigh. 
The  air  of  the  Boroughbridge-road  disagrees  with  me.  You 
must  give  me  my  share  of  our  income,  Gerty " 

"  Which  would  be  about  seventy-five  jDounds." 

"  Is  it  really  so  much  as  that  P  I  should  feel  immensely  ricli 
on  the  Continent  with  thirty  shilUngs  a  week." 

"  You  appear  to  forget  that  this  house  was  taken  with  a  view 
to  joint  occupation." 

"  You  cau  keep  ten  pounds  a  year  for  my  share  of  the  rent 
and  taxes." 

Gertrude  argued  for  an  hour,  and  even  Diana  took  the  trouble 
to  remonstrate.  But  it  was  in  vain  that  both  ladies  endeavoured 
to  demonstrate  the  actual  impossibility  of  such  a  life  as  EUzabeth 
proposed  to  lead.     The  girl  was  inflexible. 

"  I  am  of  age,"  she  said ;  "  and  no  one  has  the  faintest  right 
to  curtail  my  liberty.  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  getting  away 
from  Hawleigh.  Blanche  can  go  with  me  if  she  likes.  She  and 
I  have  always  got  on  very  well  together;  but  if  she  doesn't  like, 
I  shall  go  alone." 

"  I  suppose  you  forgot  that  you  have  expectations  from  aunt 
Chevenix,"  said  Gertrude,  as  a  final  argument ;  "  and  that  such 
a  step  as  you  contemplate  is  likely  to  alienate  her  affection  for 
ever." 

"  I  have  never  allowed  expectations  to  stand  in  my  way," 
answered  Elizabeth  scornfully ;  "  and  as  I  can  live  upon  a  pound 
a  week,  I  can  afford  to  be  independent  of  aunt  Chevenix." 

Remonstrance  being  useless,  the  two  elder  sisters  bewailed 
their  sister's  folly  in  secret.  It  was  a  complete  disruption  of  the 
small  household.  Blanche  elected  to  follow  the  fortunes  of 
Elizabeth,  agrtieing  to  pay  her  share  of  the  rent  during  her  ab- 
sence. The  most  melancholy  point  in  the  whole  affair  was  the 
diminution  of  state  which  this  severance  would  necessitate. 
Ono  of  the  two  servants — the  irreproachable  parlour-maid,  who 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  251 

•rot^^atmslin  aprons — would  have  to  be  dismissed,  now  that  the 
W«t  or  her  maintenance  could  be  no  longer  shared  by  the  four 
sisters.  Thts  fact  nioved  both  Gertrude  and  Diana  more  deeply 
than  the  loss  of  their  younger  and  wilder  sisters. 

Providence,  however,  had  a  care  for  their  interests  ;  and  an 
event  was  looming  in  the  future  which  was  destined  to  alter 
Elizabeth's  views,  or  rather  to  present  her  with  a  more  bi'illiant 
opportunity  of  escape  from  the  life  that  had  become  obnoxious 
to  her. 

She  was  walking  aloue  one  gusty  afternoon,  about  a  week  after 
the  first  discussion  of  her  foreign  wanderings,  and  had  rambled 
farther  than  usual  on  the  road  between  Hawleigh  and  Ash- 
conibe — a  road  that  was  little  better  than  a  winding  lane  that 
meandered  through  a  long  valley  at  the  foot  of  the  moor,  follow- 
ing the  course  of  a  stream  that  brawled  and  babbled  over  ita 
rocky  bed,  in  the  winter  swollen  to  the  dimensions  of  a  river,  and 
in  dry  summers  vanished  altogether  from  the  eye  of  man, 
leaving  its  bare  stony  bed  to  bleach  in  the  sun.  The  deep  banks 
of  the  lane  were  thickly  clothed  with  greenest  ferns  in  the  late 
summer  time ;  but  at  this  season  there  were  only  a  few  violets 
nestling  in  the  mOtl^y  tnrf,  through  which  the  red  rich  soil  of  the 
West  peeped  here  and  there  in  ruddy  patches. 

This  lane  was  a  favourite  walk  of  Elizabeth's.  Young  oaks 
and  older  Scotch  firs  rose  like  a  forest  on  one  side ;  the  steep 
shoulder  of  the  moor  shut  it  in  on  the  other.  A  solitary  dark- 
some place,  in  the  chill  March  dusk,  gloomy  with  Nature's  pen- 
sive gloom — a  very  cloister  in  which  to  meditate  upon  *he  faults 
and  follies  of  her  blighted  life. 

The  boundary  of  her  longest  rambles  was  an  old  stone  bridge 
about  three  miles  from  Hawleigh,  at  a  point  where  the  stream 
widened  and  made  a  sharp  curve  across  the  road ;  a  very 
ancient  bridge,  covered  with  gray  old  mosses  and  pale  sea-green 
lichens  ;  and  supposed  to  have  been  built  by  those  indefatigable 
road-makers  the  Romans. 

Here  she  lingered  this  afternoon,  resting  a  little,  with  her 
folded  arms  upon  the  parapet,  watching  the  faint  pale  moon 
driven  wildly  through  a  cloudy  gray  sky. 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  be  any  happier  abroad  than  I  am 
here,"  she  said  to  herself,  ruminating  upon  her  new  scheme  of 
life  ;  "  but  I  shall  at  least  have  something  to  do,  and  I  shall  not 
have  so  much  time  for  thought  if  I  keep  jogging  on  from  one 
place  to  another." 

This  was  the  result  of  all  her  meditations  that  afternoon. 
She  looked  forward  to  the  change  in  her  existenca  not  with 
actual  pleasure,  only  with  a  vague  hope  of  relief. 

She  had  been  standing  on  the  bridge  about  ten  minutes,  now 
tollowing  the  moon  till  she  v/ae  lost  in  a  sea  of  '-'^jds,  now 


252  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

^patching  the  water  gurgling  over  the  stones,  when  she  heai"d  .t'n 
approach  of  p.  horseman  in  the  quiet  lane;  some  farmer,  no 
doubt.  She  did  not  trouble  herself  to  look  round ;  but  waited 
tiiriie  should  pass  before  beginning  her  homeward  walk. 

He  rode  briskly  enough  up  to  the  hedge,  then  slackened  his 
pace,  and  rode  slowly  across ;  then  to  her  surprise  drew  rein 
suddenly  on  the  other  side,  sprang  from  his  horse,  and  came 
towards  her. 

"  Miss  Luttrell,  is  it  really  you  ?  " 

She  turned  quickly,  her  pale  face  flushing  in  the  twilight.  It 
was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  blushed  at  his  coming. 

"  Lord  Paulyn ! "  she  exclaimed ;  as  much  surprised  by  his 
appearance  as  if  she  had  been  a  thousand  miles  from  his  domains. 

"  I  thought  I  could  not  be  mistaken,"  he  cried,  holding  out 
both  his  hands,  but  only  receiving  one  of  hers,  and  that  one 
given  with  a  reluctant  air ;  "  but  I  should  never  have  expected  to 
find  you  in  this  wretched  lane — alone,  too.  I — 1  haven't  seen 
you  since  the  Vicar's  death,  and  I  ought  to  have  written,  I  dare- 
say, but  I'm  not  a  dab — I  mean,  I'm  a  poor  hand  at  penman- 
ship. I  should  have  telegraphed  to  you  to  say  how  sorry  I  was, 
only  I  knew  my  mother  would  do  all  that  kind  of  thing." 

"  Thanks.  I  don't  think  anybody's  condolence  is  of  much  use 
in  such  cases,  however  well  meant.  One  loses  all  one  has  to  love 
in  the  world,  and  one's  friends  write  polite  letters,  with  quotations 
from  Sci'ipture,  which  are  usually  incorrect." 

This  with  a  faint  attempt  at  carelessness,  but  with  tears  rising 
unbidden  to  her  eyes. 

"  But  you  haven't  lost  all  you  love,"  seizing  upon  the  small 
black-gloved  hand,  and  possessing  himself  of  it  in  spite  of  her — 
"  at  least  not  all  who  love  you  ;  that  is  to  say,  there  is  one 
foolish  beggar  I  can  vouch  for  who  still  loves  vou  to  distraction." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  aware  of  any  such  person's  existence.  Let 
go  my  hand,  please.  Lord  Paulyn ;  you  are  pressing  the  rings 
into  my  fingers." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  unwillingly  releasing  it.  "  But  don't 
pretend  not  to  know,  Elizabeth ;  that  is  too  bad.  I  dare  say 
other  fellows  have  made  themselves  foolish  about  you ;  but  you 
know  who  I  mean  when  I  talk  of  loving  you  to  distraction. 
You  know  that  there  never  was  any  man  so  infatuated  as  I  have 
been— as  I  still  am,  worse  luck ! " 

"  About  Miss  Eamsay,  I  presume;  "  with  a  chilUng  air. 

"  Come,  now,  Lizzie,  don't  be  absurd.  Has  my  mother  been 
letting  out  any  of  her  fine  schemes  for  getting  me  to  marry 
Sarah  Ramsay? — a  young  woman  of  thirty,  with  freckles  and 
sandy  hair,  and  about  as  much  figure  as  a  broomstick.  She's  to 
have  something  like  half  a  milHon  of  money,  I  believe,  for  her 
marriage  portion ;  and  a  million  or  two  when  her  father  departs 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  253 

this  life.  My  motlier  picked  her  up  at  Torquay  in  the  aatumn, 
and  has  been  trying  it  on  ever  since,  but  without  effect.  I'm  the 
kind  of  horse  that  may  be  brought  to  the  water,  but  I  don't 
driiik  unless  I'm  thirsty." 

"  Lady  Paulyn  told  me  that  you  were  going  to  be  married  to 
Mi?s  Kamsay;  that  it  was  a  settled  thing." 

"  Then  she  told  you  an  infernal  lie." 

A  little  thrill  of  pleasure  stirred  Elizabeth's  heart  at  this 
unfilial  observation.  It  was  not  that  she  hked  Lord  Paulyn,  or 
that  she  was  proud  of  his  constancy,  or  grateful  for  his  affec- 
tion, or  that  she  had  at  that  moment  any  idea  of  marrying  him. 
She  was  merely  pleased  to  discover  that  she  had  not  been 
Buperseded ;  that  she  still  retained  her  dominion  over  him,  still 
held  him  in  her  thrall ;  that  she  could  go  home  to  her  sisters, 
and  tell  them  how  egregiously  they  had  been  duped  by  the 
dowager's  diplomatic  falsehoods. 

"  No,  Lizzie,  I  never  cared  for  any  one  but  you,"  the  young 
man  went  on,  after  he  had  muttered  his  indignation  at  the 
dowager's  attempt  to  deceive ;  "  and  I  suppose  I  ahall  go  on 
caring  for  you  till  the  end  of  my  days.  It's  the  mc^t  miserable 
infatuation.  Do  you  know  that  I  am  tolerably  safe  to  win  the 
Derby  this  year,  with  a  horse  I  bred  myself;  bis  sire  was  one 
of  the  old  Dutchman's  stock,  and  his  dam  was  sister  to  St^n-iax, 
who  won  the  Two  Thousand  six  years  ago,  and  the  Chester  Cup 
the  year  after  ?  Yes,  Lizzie,  I  think  the  Derby's  a  safe  thing 
this  year;  and  yet  I  set  no  more  value  upon  it  than  if  it  was 
nothing.  Think  of  that,  Lizzie — the  blue  ribbon  of  the  turf. 
I've  been  winning  no  end  of  things  lately;  yacht  races  and  so  on 
last  year,  and  a  cup  at  Newmarket  the  other  day.     It's  the  old 

adage,  you  know :  unlucky  in  love But  I'd  rather  win  you 

for  my  wife  than  half-a-dozen  consecutive  Derbies.  Come  now, 
Liz,  it's  all  off  with  that  other  fellow ;  he's  off  the  course,  the 
Lord  knows  whore.     What  is  there  to  stand  between  us  ?" 

"  [Merely  the  fact  that  Mr.  Forde  is  the  only  man  I  ever 
loved,  and  I  am  not  quite  sure  I  don't  love  him  still.  I  owe 
you  at  least  candour.  It  is  a  very  humiliating  confession  to 
make;  but  I  do  not  mind  telhng  you  that  I  loved  him  very 
dearly,  and  that  my  heart  was  almost  broken  by  his  deser- 
tion." 

"  Confounded  snob  !"  said  the  Yiscount ;  "  but  I'm  very  glad 
be  did  make  himself  scarce.  It  would  have  been  a  most  un« 
euitable  match:  a  splendid  girl  hke  you,  born  to  adorn  a 
coronet  and  all  that  kind  of  thing.     But  I  say,  Lizzie " 

"  Who  gave  you  leave  to  call  me  by  my  Christian  name  ? " 
she  asked,  looking  round  at  him  indignantly.  She  had  been 
Btaring  at  the  little  river  hurrying  over  its  rugged  bed,  hardly 
eeemiiif   to   listen   to   Lord  Paulyn's   discourse.     He  had  his 


254  Strangere  and  Pilgrims. 

horse's  bridle  on  his  arm,  and  found  some  hindrance  to  eloquence 

in  the  restlessness  of  that  animal. 

"  O,  come  now.  It's  not  much  of  a  privilege  to  ask,  after 
standing  all  I've  stood  for  you,  and  being  laughed  at  by  my 
friends  into  the  bargain.  But  I  say,  Elizabeth,  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  seriously.  I  only  ran  down  from  London  by  last  night'a 
limited  mail ;  and  the  chief  motive  that  brought  me  here  waa 
the  thought  that  I  might  find  you  a  little  better  disposed 
towards  me,  when  the  edge  of  your  feelings  about  that  parson 
fellow  had  worn  off.  You've  had  time  to  grow  wiser  since  we 
last  met,  and  to  find  out  that  there's  something  more  in  the 
world  than  sentimental  parsons.  By  Jove,  I  should  think 
Hawleigh  was  a  favourable  place  for  reflection ;  a  regular 
Hervey*s-Meditations-araong-the-Tombs  kind  of  a  place.  You've 
had  time  to  think  it  all  over,  Lizzie ;  and  I  hope  you've  made 
up  your  mind  you  might  be  happier  knocking  about  the  world 
with  me  than  moping  alone  here.  Be  my  wife,  Lizzie.  I've 
been  constant  to  you  all  this  time,  though  you  always  treated 
me  badly.   You  can't  be  so  hard-hearted  as  to  refuse  me  now  ?  " 

She  was  slow  to  answer  him,  stUl  watching  the  swift-flowing 
river,  as  if  she  were  seeking  some  augury  in  the  gurgle  of  the 
waters.  Even  when  she  did  speak,  it  was  with  her  eyes  still 
bent  upon  the  stream. 

"  I  know  that  I  am  supremely  miserable  here,"  she  said,  "  and 
that  is  all  I  know  about  myself." 

"  But  you  might  be  hajjpier  in  the  world,  Lizzie,  with  me. 
Who  could  be  anything  but  miserable  moping  in  such  a  hole  as 
this  ?  "  demanded  Lord  Paulyn,  with  a  contemptuous  glance  at 
the  darkening  moorland,  as  if  it  had  been  the  meanest  thing  in 
nature. 

She  scarcely  heeded  the  manner  of  his  speech  or  the  words 
that  composed  it.  She  was  debating  a  solemn  question ;  hold- 
ing counsel  with  herself.  Should  she  astonish  all  her  friends — ■ 
prove  that  she,  the  rejected  of  Malcolm  Forde,  could  mount  to 
dazzling  worlds  beyond  their  ken  .P  The  days  of  her  humiliation 
had  been  very  bitter  to  her ;  she  had  eaten  ashes  for  bread,  and 
moistened  them  with  angry  tears.  The  fact  that  she  cared 
nothing  for  this  man,  that  her  chief  feeling  about  him  was  a 
sentiment  verging  upon  contempt,  hardly  entered  into  her 
thoughts  to-night ;  they  were  too  exclusively  selfish.  Self  was 
the  very  centre  of  her  little  world.  Her  own  humiliation,  hex 
own  disapiDointments,  made  up  the  sum-total  of  her  universe. 
Whatever  was  womanly,  or  true,  or  noble  in  her  nature  had 
begun  and  ended  with  her  love  for  Malcolm  Forde. 

An  hour  ago  and  she  had  believed  Lordfaulyn  as  completely 
lost  to  her  as  her  father's  curate,  and  she  had  begun  to  regrel 
the  folly  that  had  cost  her  all  the  splendours  of  that  brighter 


Strangers  and  Pilgrimg.  255 

world  which  had  seemed  so  very  fair  to  her  two  years  ago. 
And  behold!  hero  was  the  constant  lover  again  at  her  side,  again 
oflerintr  her  his  rank  und  wealth,  not  from  the  haughty  altitude 
of  a  King  Cophetua  to  his  beggar-maid,  but  urging  his  plea 
iike  a  condemned  felon  beseeching  the  reversal  of  his  doom. 

Busy  thoughts  of  what  her  life  might  be  in  the  years  to  come 
if  she  accepted  him— busy  thoughts  of  the  dull  blank  it  needa 
must  be  if  she  rejected  him — crowded  her  brain.  Selfishness, 
ambition,  pride— all  the  worst  vices  of  her  nature — won  the 
victory.  She  turned  to  her  lover  at  last,  with  a  face  that  was 
very  pale  in  the  dim  light,  and  said  slowly, 

"  If  you  really  wish  it,  if  you  are  content  to  take  me  without 
any  profession  of  love  or  sentiment  on  my  side — I  made  an  end 
of  those  when  I  quarrelled  with  my  first  lover — if  you  can  be 
satisfied  with  such  an  indifferent  bargain " 

"  If!"  cried  the  young  man  with  sudden  energy,  putting  hia 
disengaged  arm  round  her  reluctant  figure,  which  recoiled  in- 
voluntarily from  that  token  of  appropriation ;  _  "  that  meana 
Yes,  and  you've  made  me  the  happiest  fellow  in  Devonshire. 
The  horse  that  can  stay  is  the  winner  after  all.  I  always  said  I'd 
have  you  for  my  wife,  Lizzie,  and  now  I  shall  keep  my  word." 

From  that  moment  her  doom  was  sealed.  There  was  no  look- 
ing backward.  Lord  Paulyn  took  possession  of  his  prize  with 
the  iron  hand  of  some  lawless  sea-ranger  swooping  upon  a 
disabled  merchantman  that  had  drifted  across  his  track.  From 
that  hour  Elizabeth  Luttrell  had  a  master. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Lorsqu'un  horame  s'ennuie  et  qu'il  sent  qu'il  est  las 
De  trainer  le  boulet  au  bagne  d'ici  bas, 
Des  qu'il  se  fait  sauter,  qu'importe  la  maniere  ?  " 

Elizabeth's  manner  that  evening  was  just  a  little  colder  and 
quieter  than  usual.  No  unwonted  flutter  of  her  spirits  betrayed 
the  fact  that  the  current  of  her  life  had  been  suddenly  turned 
into  a  new  channel.  She  had  suffered  her  lover  to  accomjiany 
her  to  the  edge  of  that  suburb  in  which  the  Boroughbridge- 
road  was  situated,  and  had  there  dismissed  him. 

"  I  may  come  to  see  you  to-morrow,  mayn't  I  ?"  he  pleaded. 
He  had  been  trying  to  make  her  fix  an  early  date  for  their  mar- 
riage all  the  way  along  the  dusky  lane. 

"  We  must  be  married  and  have  our  wedding-tour  over  before 
the  Derby,  you  know,"  he  said  persuasively.  "  You  don't  care 
much  about  the  tourmg  business,  do  you  ?  I'm  sure  I  don't. 
I  never  could  understand  why  newly-man-ied  people  should  be 


256  Strangers  and  Vilgrims. 

eent  to  start  at  mountains,  and  do  penance  in  musty  old  cathe* 

(Irals,  as  if  they'd  done  something  wicked,  and  were  obliged  to 
worlc  it  out  somehow  before  they  could  get  absolution.  A  week 
at  Malvern  would  be  about  our  figure :  or  if  we  had  tolerable 
weather,  I  could  take  you  as  far  as  Malta  in  the  Pixy." 

_"  You  are  in  a  great  hurry  to  settle  matters;  but  when  I  pro- 
mised to  marry  you,  just  now,  I  said  nr^thing  about  the  date  of 
our  marriage." 

''  But  that  goes  without  saying.  I've  served  my  apprentice- 
ship. You're  not  going  to  turn  round  upon  nie  like  Laban, 
and  offer  me  one  of  your  sisters,  or  make  me  work  seven  years 
longer.  And  if  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  marry  me,  it 
can't  matter  to  you  whether  it's  soon  or  late." 

"  What  will  Lady  Paulyn  say  ?"  asked  Elizabeth,  with  a  little 
laugh.  There  was  something  pleasant  in  the  idea  of  that  wily 
matron's  mortification. 

"  My  mother  will  be  rabid,"  said  the  dutiful  son ;  "  but  so  she 
woiild  whomsoever  I  married,  unless  it  was  for  bullion.  It  was 
a  good  joke  her  coming  to  try  and  choke  you  off  with  that  story 
about  Sarah  Ramsay.     Yes ;  my  lOother  will  be  riled." 

"And  Miss  Disney  .P  do  you  think  she  will  be  pleased?" 

The  Viscount  was  not  so  prompt  in  his  answer  this  time. 

"  Hilda,"  he  said  meditatively ;  "  well,  I  don't  know.  But  1 
suppose  she'll  be  rather  glad.  It'll  give  her  a  home,  you  see, 
by  and  by,  when  my  mother  goes  off  the  hooks.  She  couldn't 
have  lived  with  me  if  I'd  been  single." 

"  Of  course  not.  We  shall  have  Miss  Disney  to  live  with  us, 
then,  by  and  by?" 

"  In  the  natural  course  of  events,  yes ;  my  mother  can't  go 
on  nursing  the  Ashcombe  estate  till  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
though  I've  no  doubt  she'd  like  very  much  to  do  it.  And  when 
phe's  dead,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing,"  continiied  his  lordship 
pleasantly,  "  Hilda  can  have  an  attic  and  a  knife  and  fork  with 
us,  unless  she  marries  in  the  interim,  and  I  don't  think  that's 
likely." 

"  She  looks  rather  like  a  person  who  has  had  what  peopb 
call  '  a  disappointment,'  "  suo-gested  Elizabeth,  wincing  a  little 
as  she  remembered  her  own  disappointment. 

"  She  came  into  the  world  with  a  disappointment,"  replied 
Lord  Paulyn.  "  Her  mother  ate  the  sour  grapes,  and  her  teeth 
were  set  on  edge.  Her  father.  Colonel  Disney,  was  heir-pre- 
sumptive to  a  great  estate,  when  my  aunt  Sybilla  married  him  ; 
but  when  his  uncle  died,  six  months  after  the  Colouel's  mar- 
riage, a  claimant  sprang  up  with  a  rigmarole  story  of  a  Scotch 
marriage,  and  no  end  of  documentary  evidence,  the  upahot  of 
which  was,  that  after  a  good  deal  of  Scotch  law,  and  pursuing 
and  defending  and  ao  on.  thfi  claimant — a  black-muzzled  lad 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  257 

with  a  dip  of  the  tar-brush — walked  over  the  course,  and  Hilda'a 
father  was  left  with  a  large  fortune  in  the  hands  of  the  Jews, 
in  the  shajse  of  post-obits  and  accommodation  bills.  He  ran 
away  with  a  French  opera-dancer  soon  afterwards,  in  a  fit  of 
disgust  with  society.  My  aunt  and  Hilda  were  left  to  drag  on 
somehow  upon  a  pittance  which  my  grandfather,  a  stingy  old 
beggar,  had  settled  upon  his  daughter  when  she  married.  When 
my  aunt  died,  Hilda  came  to  live  with  my  mother,  and  has  had 
a  very  pleasant  time  of  it  ever  since,  I  make  no  doubt." 

They  parted  at  the  beginning  of  the  villas  that  were  dotted 
along  the  first  half  mile  or  so  of  the  Boroughbridge-road,  giving 
a  trim  suburban  aspect  to^this  side  of  Hawleigh.  There  were 
even  gas-lamps,  macadam,'  and  a  general  aspect  of  inhabited- 
ness  very  difierent  from  the  narrow  lanes  and  rugged  common 
on  the  other  side  of  the  town.  This  new  neighbourhood  was 
the  west-end  of  Hawleigh. 

"  I  shall  come  to  see  you  to-morrow,"  repeated  Lord  Paulyn, 
reluctant  to  depart.  "  And  mind,  everything  must  be  over  and 
done  with  before  May.  Do  you  remember  the  first  Derby  we 
were  at  together,  nearly  two  years  ago  ?  Jolly,  wasn't  it  ?  I've 
got  a  new  team  for  the  drag,  spankers.  I've  set  my  heart  upon 
your  seeing  Young  Englander  win.  Hadn't  you  better  write 
to  Mrs.  Chevenix?  She's  the  woman  to  do  our  business.  If 
you  trust  everything  to  your  sisters,  they'll  be  a  twelvemonth 
muddling  about  it." 

"  We  have  plenty  of  time  for  discussing  these  arrangements, 
without  standing  in  the  high-road  to  do  so,"  said  Elizabeth  im- 
patiently. "  If  I  had  known  you  were  going  to  worry  me,  I 
should  never  have  said  what  I  did  just  now.  After  all,  it  was 
only  said  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment.  I  may  change  my 
mind  to-morrow  morning." 

"  0  no,  you  won't.  I  won't  stand  anything  of  that  kind.  I 
am  not  hke  that  parson  fellow.  Once  having  got  you,  I  mean 
to  keep  you.  I  think  I  deserve  some  reward  for  holding  on  as 
I've  done.  You  mustn't  talk  any  more  about  throwing  me  over; 
that's  past  and  done  with." 

"  Then  you  mustn't  worry  me,"  said  Elizabeth,  with  a  faint 
eigh  of  utter  weariness.  "  So  now  good  night  for  the  last  time. 
It  is  past  seven  o'clock,  and  my  sisters  will  think  I  am  lost.  I 
almost  wonder  they  haven't  sent  the  bellman  after  me." 

And  thus  they  parted,  without  the  kiss  of  betrothal,  which 
Miss  Luttrell  would  not  consent  to  receive  in  the  high-road. 
But  he  had  kissed  her  once  in  the  lane ;  passionate  lips  pressed 
against  unwilUng  lips,  typical  of  that  union  which  was  to  be 
no  union ;  only  self-intereist  and  selfish  short-lived  passion  going 
hand  in  hand. 

"  0,  dear,"   thought  Ehzabeth,  as  she  went  in  at  the  Httla 


25P  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

garden  gate,  and  knocked  witli  the  doll's-house  knocker  on  the 
doll's-house  door ;  "  what  a  tiresome  thing  it  is  to  be  engaged  ! " 

She  had  thought  very  differently  two  years  ago,  when  her 
wiUing  head  rested  for  the  first  time  on  Malcolm  Forde's  breast, 
and  a  supreme  contentment,  which  seemed  more  of  heaven  than 
of  earth,  descended  on  her  soul — a  perfect  restfulness,  like  the 
serene  stillness  of  a  rescued  i'essel  that  lies  at  anchor  in  som? 
sheltered  harbour  after  long  battling  with  wind  and  waves. 

"  How  he  begins  to  worry  me  already,"  she  thought  of  hef 
new  master.  "  I  foresee  that  he  will  make  me  do  whatever 
he  likes,  unless  he  goes  too  far,  and  rouses  the  spirit  of  oppo- 
sition in  me.  But  Gertrude  and  Diana  will  not  be  able  to 
crow  over  me  any  longer,  that  is  one  comfort.  And  I  have 
done  with  small  rooms  and  a  small  income,  that  is  another." 

Her  sisters  had  drunk  tea,  and  dismissed  the  urn  and  tea-pot, 
and  a  cold  and  somewhat  sloj^py  cup  of  their  favourite  beverage 
had  been  set  aside  for  her  on  a  little  tray.  She  smiled  in- 
voluntarily, as  she  threw  off  her  hat,  and  sat  down  in  a  corner  to 
sip  the  cold  tea,  thinking  how,  in  a  very  short  time,  pompous 
Berving-men  would  hasten  to  administer  to  her  wants,  and  her 
coming  in  and  going  out  would  be  an  affair  of  importance  to  a 
vast  household.  She  sat  in  her  corner  looking  listlessly  at  her 
sisters,  grouped  round  the  larajD,  and  engaged  in  their  usual 
avocations,  and  could  not  helj)  feeling  that  it  was  really  very 
good  of  her  to  endure  these  small  surroundings,  even  for  the 
moment. 

"  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time,  Lizzie  ?  "  exclaimed 
Blanche,  looking  up  from  the  construction  of  some  futility  in 
bead-work.     "At  the  Melvin's,  I  suppose,  kettle-drumming?  " 

"No;  I  went  for  a  longer  walk  than  usual,  and  forgot  how 
late  it  was." 

"  And  have  been  roaming  about  alone  after  dark,"  said  Ger- 
trude, with  a  horrified  look.  "  Really,  Elizabeth,  if  you  must 
indulge  your  eccentric  taste  for  solitary  rambles,  you  might  at 
least  respect  the  opinion  of  the  world  so  far  as  to  gratify  your 
strange  taste  within  reasonable  hours." 

"  I  have  no  respect  for  the  opinion  of  the  world.  I  have  out- 
raged it  once,  and  perhaps  may  outrage  it  again." 

"  Which  way  did  you  go  ?  "  asked  the  pacific  Blanche,  anxious 
to  change  the  subject. 

"  Towards  Ashcombe." 

"  I  wonder  when  Lord  Paulyn  is  to  be  married  ?  "  said  Diana, 
contemplating  some  grand  effect  in  a  square  inch  of  point  lace. 

"  Rather  soon,  I  believe." 

"  Where  did  you  hear  that  ?  Come  now,  you  must  have  been 
calling  somewhere,  or  you  would  not  have  heard  the  news." 

"  I   have   not  been   calhnjf  anywhere,  but  I  have  reason  to 


Strangers  and  Filgrims.  259 

believe    Lord  Paulyn  is  going    to    be    married,    and    rather 


soon." 


"  There's  nothing  new  in  that,"  said  Diana;  "the  dowager 
told  us  as  much." 

"  Would  you  like  to  be  bridesmaids  on  the  occasion,  all  of 
you?  "  asked  Elizabeth. 

"  What,  bridesmaids  to  that  horrid  Miss  Ramsay  P  "  cried 
Blanche. 

"  No,  not  to  Miss  Ramsay — but  to  me." 

The  youngest  and  most  energetic  of  the  Luttrells  sprang  from 
her  seat,  very  nearly  overturning  the  nv)derator-lamp  in  her 
excitement. 

"  To  you  !  0,  you  darling,  you  have  been  cheating  us  all  this 
time,  and  are  you  really  going  to  be  a  great  lady,  and  present  us 
all  at  court,  and  give  no  end  of  balls  and  parties  ?  It's  too  good 
to  be  true." 

"  And  as  we  had  no  ground  for  such  an  idea  yesterday,  when 
you  were  full  of  your  continental  wanderings,  I  really  can't 
understand  why  we  are  to  believe  in  such  a  thing  to-night,"  ob- 
served Gertrude  the  jsragmatical,  with  a  spiteful  look. 

"  Can't  you  ?  There  are  some  people  in  whose  lives  great 
changes  seem  to  happen  by  accident.  The  accident  of  a  wicked 
anonymous  letter  helped  to  break  off  my  engagement  with  Mr. 
Forde,"  with  a  keen  glance  at  her  eldest  sister.  "  A  chance 
meeting  with  Lord  Paulyn  this  evening  on  the  Roman  bridge 
has  altered  my  plans  for  going  to  Normandy.  He  made  me  an 
offer  again  to-night,  for  the  third  time  in  his  life,  and " 

"  And  you  accepted  him,"  said  Diana.  "  You  must  have  been 
nearer  idiotcy  than  I  should  think  a  Luttrell  could  be,  if  you 
rejected  him." 

"  But  there  is  such  a  thing  as  constancy  even  to  an  idea,"  said 
Gertrude.  "  I  should  have  thought  Elizabeth  would  have  cared 
more  for  the  memory  of  Malcolm  Forde  than  for  worldly  advan- 
tages." 

"No,"  answered  Elizabeth  defiantly,  "  I  am  not  so  slavish  as 
to  go  on  breaking  my  heart  about  a  man  for  ever.  And  living 
screwed  up  in  this  box  of  a  house  has  taught  me  the  value  of 
Burroundings." 

"  You  will  go  to  live  at  Ashcombe,  I  suppose,"  suggested  Ger- 
trude, "  with  the  dowager  and  Miss  Disney  ?  I  can  fancy  how 
nice  that  will  be  for  you." 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  mean  to  hve  in  the  world, 
in  the  very  centre  of  the  great  whirlpool — to  go  spinning 
round  perpetually  in  the  fashionable  maelstrom." 

"  A  hazardous  life  for  the  welfare  of  an  immortal  soul,"  said 
Gertrude, 

"I  have  ceased  to  care  for  mj  soul  since  Malcolm  gave  me  up. 


260  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

Indeed,  I  have  a  suspicion  that  my  soul  ceased  to  exist  when  h, 
went  away,  leaving  only  some  kind  of  mechanism  in  its  place." 


CHAPTER  rV. 

*^  Hoyden.  This  very  morning  my  lord  told  me  I  should  have  twc 
hundred  a  year  to  buy  pins.  Now,  nurse,  if  he  gives  me  two  hundred 
a  year  to  buy  pins,  what  do  you  think  he'll  give  me  to  buy  line  petti- 
coats ? 

Nurse.  0,  my  dearest,  he  deceives  thee  foully,  and  he's  no  Letter 
than  a  rogue  for  his  pains.  These  Londoners  have  got  a  gibberish  with 
'em  would  confound  a  gipsy.  That  which  they  call  pin-money  is  to  buy 
their  wives  everything  in  the  varsal  world,  down  to  their  very  shoe-ties." 

Unbounde  3  was  the  rapture  of  Mrs.  Chevenix  when  she  received 
the  unlooked-for  tidings  of  Elizabeth's  engagement.  She  wrote 
at  once  urging  that  the  wedding  should  take  place  in  Lon.lon. 
"  It  will  be  just  the  height  of  the  season,"  she  said,  "  and  every- 
body in  town.  Gertrude,  Di,  and  Blanche  can  come  up  with 
you.  I  will  stretch  a  point,  and  find  rooms  for  all  of  you.  You 
could  not  possibly  be  married  from  that  footy  little  house  in  the 
Boroughbridge-road.  And  there  will  be  your  trousseau,  you 
know,  dear,  a  most  serious  question ;  for  of  course  everything 
must  be  in  the  highest  style,  and  I  really  doubt  whether  Cerise 
— whose  real  name,  by  the  bye,  I  have  lately  discovered  to  be 
Jones — is  quite  up  to  the  mark  for  this  occasion.  She  suits  me 
very  well,  but  I  have  lately  discovered  a  want  of  originality  in 
her  style ;  so  I  think  the  better  way  would  be  to  order  your 
superior  dinner  and  evening  dresses  from  Paris,  and  give  Cerise 
only  the  secondary  ones.  Believe  me,  my  dear  child,  I  shall  not 
shrink  from  exjDense ;  but  we  will  not  fall  into  that  foolish  trick 
of  ordering  more  dresses  than  you  could  wear  in  six  months, 
ignoring  the  almost  hourly  changes  of  fashion.  As  Lord  Paulyn's 
wife,  you  will,  of  course,  have  unlimited  means.  By  the  way,  as 
you  have  really  no  responsible  male  relative,  the  arrangement 
of  settlements  will  devolve  upon  me.  My  lawyers,  Messrs. 
Pringle  and  Scrupress,  are  well  up  in  that  kind  of  work,  and 
will,  I  am  sure,  protect  your  interests  as  carefully  as  if  you  were 
the  daughter  of  their  oldest  and  most  important  client." 

This  subject,  thus  mooted  for  the  first  time  in  Mrs.  Chevenix's 
letter,  was  destined  to  cause  a  good  deal  of  argument  and  un- 
pleasantness between  the  aunt  and  niece. 

"  I  will  have  no  settlement,"  said  Elizabeth  resolutely.  "  1 
take  nothing  to  him,  except  sixty  or  seventy  pounds  a  year,  and 
he  shall  not  be  asfced  to  settle  ever  so  many  hundreds  upon  me. 
I  will  not  quite  sell  myself.      Of  course,  he  will  give  me  fine 


Strangero  and  Fili/rime.  2G1 

dresses  and  all  I  can  want  to  make  a  brilliant  figure  in  Lis  own 
world.  He  has  been  patient  enough  and  devoted  enough  for  me 
to  trust  my  interests  to  him.  It  stands  to  reason  that  I  shall 
always  have  as  much  money  as  I  can  spend.  He  is  overflowing 
with  riches,  and  as  his  wife  I  shall  have  a  right  to  my  share  of 
them.  But  I  will  not  allow  any  one  to  ask  him  to  name  the  price 
that  he  is  willing  to  give  for  me.  It  shall  not  be  quite  a  matter 
01  buying  and  selling." 

"  Very  high-flown  notions,  and  worthy  of  the  most  self-willed 
unreasonable  young  woman  that  ever  lived,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Chevenix  in  a  rage.  "  But  I  suppose  you  would  hardly  wish 
your  children  to  starve.  You  will  not  object  to  their  interests 
being  provided  for  by  people  who  know  a  little  more  about  life 
than  you  do,  self-opinionated  as  you  may  be." 

"My  children!"  said  Elizabeth,  turning  very  pale.  Could 
there  be  children,  the  very  sanctiflcation  and  justiflcation  of 
marriage,  for  her  and  for  Reginald  Paulyu,  who  in  marriage 
sought  only  the  gratification  of  their  own  selfish  and  sordid 
desires  ?  My  children !  I  can  hardly  fancy  that  I  shall  ever 
hear  a  voice  call  me  mother.  I  seem  so  unfit  to  have  little 
children  loving  me  and  trusting  in  me,  in  their  blind  childish 
way,"  she  added  dreamily;  and  then,  with  a  more  practical  air: 
"  Do  what  you  please  to  protect  their  interests,  auntie,  in  case 
Lord  Paulyn  should  gamble  away  all  his  wealth  on  the  race- 
course ;  but  remember,  for  me  myself  not  a  penny." 

Nor  was  this  an  idle  protest.  She  took  care  to  give  the 
family  sohcitors  the  same  injunctions;  and  as  Lord  Paulyn  was 
not  a  man  to  insist  on  extreme  generosity  in  the  preliminary 
arrangements  of  his  marriage,  he  did  not  dispute  her  will.  So 
certain  estates  were  settled  upon  such  younger  sons  as  Elizabeth 
might  hereafter  bring  to  her  husband,  and  certain  smaller  pro- 
perties were  charged  with  the  maintenance  of  daughters;  but 
the  wife  herself  was  left  subject  to  the  husband's  liberality. 
Mrs.  Chevenix  shook  her  head  ominously. 

"  Was  there  ever  anything  so  foolish  ?  After  what  we  have 
seen  of  that  old  woman  too  i "  she  added,  with  somewhat  dis- 
respectful mention  of  her  niece's  future  mother-in-law." 

Their  knowledge  of  the  dowajer  was  certainly  not  calculated 
to  inspire  any  exalted  hope  of  the  son's  g'^nerosity.  _  Yet,  in  that 
foolish  period  which  went  before  his  marriage,  Reginald  Paulyn 
showed  himself  lavish  in  the  gifts  which  he  showered  upon  hia 
mistress.  Did  she  but  frown,  he  propitiated  her  with  an 
emerald  bracelet ;  was  she  angry  with  him  without  reason,  she 
had  her  reward  in  a  triplet  of  rings,  red,  white,  and  green,  like 
the  Italian  flag.  The  Paulyn  diamonds,  which  had  lain  perdu 
since  the  dowager's  last  appearance  at  court,  were  dug  out  of 
th«  bank,  and  sent  to  be  reset  at  a  famous  West-end  jeweller's. 


2G2  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

Elizabeth  beheld  their  far-darting  rays  with  dazzlfe<:{  eyes,  and  a 
mind  that  was  almost  bewildered  by  this  fulfilment  of  all  her 
childish  dreams.  It  was  like  the  story  of  Cinderella ;  nor  does 
one  know  by  any  means  that  Cinderella  cared  very  much  about 
the  Prince.  The  old  fairy  tale  is  hardly  a  love  story,  but  rather 
a  romance  of  horses  and  carriages,  and  other  worldly  splendour, 
and  swift  transition  from  a  kitchen  to  a  palace. 

"  After  all,  it  was  perhaps  very  lucky  that  Mr.  Forde  jilted 
me,"  Elizabeth  thought  in  her  worldly-minded  moments,  when 
she  was  taken  to  look  at  the  carriages  which  Lord  Paulyn  had 
chosen  for  her.  The  graceful  shell-shaped  barouche,  the  dainty 
brougham,  with  innumerable  patent  inventions  for  the  comfort 
of  its  occupant. 

There  had  been  no  Paulyn  town-house  since  the  reign  of 
George  III.,  when  Beginald's  grandfather  had  inhabited  a 
^aunt  and  dismal  mansion  out  Manchester-square  way,  the 
freehold  of  which  had  been  settled  upon  a  younger  son,  and  had, 
in  due  course,  been  forwarded  to  a  money-lender.  The  dowager, 
in  her  day,  had  preferred  living  in  furnished  lodgings  during 
her  residences  in  the  capital.  So  Elizabeth  had  the  delight  of 
choosing  an  abode  at  the  West-end,  and  finally,  after  exploring 
all  the  more  fashionable  quarters,  selected  a  corner  house  in 
Park -lane,  aU  balconies  and  verandahs,  with  a  certain  pleasing 
rusticity. 

"  You  must  build  me  a  huge  conservatory  on  the  top  of  that 
hideous  pile  of  stabling  and  kitchens  at  the  back,"  she  said  to 
her  lover,  to  whom  she  issued  her  orders  somewhat  unceremonji- 
ously  at  tliis  period  of  their  lives ;  "  and  I  must  have  a  fernery 
or  two  somewhere." 

The  selection  of  furniture  for  this  balconied  abode  was  an 
agreeable  amusement  for  Miss  Luttrell's  mornings  during  the 
few  weeks  she  spent  in  Eaton-place,  and  was  not  without  its 
efl^ect  upon  the  balance  Lord  Paulyn  kept  at  his  bank,  which 
was  an  unusually  s-mall  one  for  so  wealthy  a  customer.  The 
young  lady  showed  a  marvellous  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  in 
art,  and  an  aristocratic  contempts  for  all  questions  of  cost.  She 
had  her  pet  forms  and  colours,  her  caprices  upon  every  subject, 
the  gratification  whereof  was  apt  to  be  expensive. 

"  She's  like  Lady  Teazle,  by  Jove,"  grumbled  the  Yiscount, 
opening  his  heart  to  a  friend  in  the  smoking-room  of  his  fa- 
vourite club,  after  a  lo.ng  morning  at  Kaliko's,  the  crack  uphol- 
terer;  "spends  a  fellow's  money  like  water;  and,  by  Jove,  I 
feel  sometimes  inclined  to  growl,  like  the  old  buffer  in  the  play." 

"  Shaw  to  be  so,"  said  his  friend,  "if  a  feller  marries  a  poor 
man's  daughter.  They  always  make  the  money  fly  like  old 
boots;  haven't  been  used  to  it,  and  like  to  see  it  spin;  just  like 
a  child  that  spins  a  sovereign  on  a  table." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  263 

"  If  she  were  always  to  go  on  like  tliis,  she  would  be  the  ruin 
of  me,"  murmured  Eeginald  ruefully;  "  but  of  course  it's  only 
a  spirt ;  and  if  she  were  inclined  to  do  it  by  and  by,  I  shouldn't 
let  her." 

"  Of  course  not.  You'll  be  able  to  put  on  a  stiffish  curb 
when  once  she's  in  harness." 

This  capacity  for  extravagance  exhibited  by  his  future  wife 
gave  Lord  Paulyn  subject  for  some  serious  thought.  Even  that 
refusal  of  a  settlement,  which,  at  the  first  glance,  seemed  so 
generous  an  imjiulse  upon  the  part  of  Elizabeth,  now  assumed  an 
alarming  as])ect.  Might  she  not  have  refused  any  stated  pin- 
money  simply  because  she  intended  to  put  no  limit  upon  her 
expenditure  ?  She  meant  to  range  at  will  over  the  whole 
extent  of  his  pastures,  not  to  be  relegated  to  an  allotted  acreage, 
however  liberal.    She  meant,  in  fact,  to  do  her  best  to  ruin  him. 

"  But  that's  a  matter  which  will  easily  adjust  itself  after  we 
are  married,"  he  said  to  himself,  shaking  ofi"  the  sense  of  wild 
fjarra  which  for  the  moment  had  possessed  him.  "  I  won't 
have  my  income  made  ducks  and  drakes  of  even  to  please  the 
handsomest  woman  in  Europe.  A  town-house  once  bought  and 
furnished  is  bought  and  furnished  for  our  lifetime,  and  for  our 
children  and  grandchildren  after  us ;  so  a  little  extravagance  in 
that  line  can't  do  much  harm.  And  as  to  milliners  and  all  that 
kind  of  thing,  I  shall  let  her  know  as  soon  as  possible  that  if 
her  bills  go  beyond  a  certain  figure,  she  and  I  will  quarrel ;  and 
so,  with  a  little  judicious  management,  I  daresay  I  shall  soon 
establish  matters  on  a  comfortable  footing." 

So  for  these  few  weeks,  her  last  of  liberty,  Lord  Paulyn 
Bufi"ered  his  betrothed  to  have  her  own  way — to  have  her  fling, 
as  he  called  it  himself.  Whatever  her  eye  desired,  as  she  roved 
at  large  in  Kaliko's  treasure-chambers,  was  instantly  booked 
against  her  future  lord.  The  rarest  Sevres ;  the  most  ex- 
quisitely-carved ebony  cabinets,  inlaid  with  plaques  of  choice 
old  Wedgwood ;  easy-chairs  and  sofas,  in  which  the  designer's 
imagination  had  run  riot ;  fairy-like  cofiee-tables ;  inimitable 
what-nots ;  bedroom  furniture  in  the  ecclesiastical  gothic  style, 
unpolished  oak,  with  antique  brazen  clamps  and  plates— furni- 
ture that  might  have  been  made  for  Mary  Stuart,  only  that  it 
was  much  handsomer  than  anything  ever  provided  for  that 
hapless  lady's  accommodation,  as  witness  the  rickety  old  oaken 
bedstead  at  Holyrood,  and  King  James's  baby-basket ;  carpets 
from  Elizabeth's  own  designs,  where  all  the  fairy  ferns  and 
wild-flowers  that  flourish  in  Devonian  woods  bestrewed  a  ground 
of  russet  velvet  pile. 

Of  such  mere  sensuous  pleasure,  the  rapture  of  choosing 
pretty  things  for  her  own  possession,  Elizabeth  had  enough  in 
the  days  before  her  marriage.      She  was  almost  grateful  to  the 


264>  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

man  whose  purse  prcrided  these  delights.  Perhaps  if  she  could 
nave  quite  put  Malcolm  Forde  out  of  her  thoughts,  exiled  his 
image  from  her  mind  for  ever  and  ever,  she  might  have  been 
actually  grateful,  and  even  happy,  in  the  realisation  of  her  pet 
day-dream. 

She  had  asked  after  her  old  friends  of  the  Rancho  when  she 
first  came  to  London,  but  found  that  hospitable  mansion  had 
disappeared,  like  Aladdin's  palace  when  the  Emperor  of  China 
looked  out  of  the  window  and  beheld  only  empty  space  where 
his  parvenu  son-in-law's  residence  had  stood.  The  Cinqmars 
had  been  ruined  somehow ;  no  one — at  any  rate  not  any  one  iu 
Mrs.  Chevenix's  circle — seemed  to  understand  how.  Mr.  Cinq«- 
mars  had  been  bankrupt,  his  name  in  the  papers  as  journalist, 
stockbroker,  theatrical  manager,  wine  merchant — goodness 
knows  what;  and  the  Rancho  estate  had  been  sold  by  auction, 
the  house  pulled  down,  the  umbrageous  groves  on  the  landward 
side  ravaged  by  the  axe,  the  ground  cut  up  into  shabby  little 
roads  of  semi-detached  villas  leading  to  nowhere.  The  lawn  and 
terrace  by  the  river  had  been  preserved,  and  were  still  in  the 
market  at  a  fabulous  price. 

"And  what  became  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cinqmars?"  asked 
Elizabeth,  sorry  for  people  who  had  been  kind  to  her,  and  sur- 
prised to  find  every  one  more  interested  in  the  fate  of  the  domain 
than  in  its  late  tenants. 

Mrs.  Chevenix  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Goodness  knows.  I  have  heard  that  they  went  to  America; 
that  they  are  living  in  a  cheap  quarter  of  Paris,  Mr.  Cinqmars 
speculating  on  the  Bourse ;  that  they  are  in  Italy,  Mrs.  Cinq- 
mars studying  for  the  operatic  stage.  There  are  ever  so  many 
difi'erent  stories  afloat  about  them,  but  I  have  never  troubled 
myself  to  consider  which  of  the  reports  is  most  likely  to  be  cor- 
rect. You  know  they  never  were  friends  of  my  own  choosing. 
It  was  Lord  Paulyn's  whim  that  we  should  know  them." 

"  But  they  were  very  kind  and  hospitable,  auntie." 

"  Ye-es.  They  had  their  own  views,  no  doubt,  however. 
Their  interest  was  not  in  Ehzabeth  Luttrell,  but  in  the  future 
Lady  Paulyn.  The  best  thing  you  can  do,  Lizzie,  is  to  forget 
that  you  ever  knew  them." 

This  was  not  a  very  difficiilt  achievement  for  Elizabeth, 
whose  thoughts  rarely  roamed  beyond  the  focus  of  self,  except 
in  one  sohtary  instance. 

[Jpon  the  details  of  Elizabeth's  wedding  it  ia  needless  to  dwell. 
She  was  not  married  before  the  Derby-day,  anxious  as  Lord 
Paulyn  had  been  to  anticipate  that  great  British  festival,  but 
early  in  the  flowery  mouth  of  June,  when  the  roses  were  just 
beginning  to  blow  in  the  poor  old  A''icarage  garden — as  Ehzabeth 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  265 

thought  with  a  sudden  pang  when  she  saw  the  exotics  that 

decked  her  wedding  breakfast.  The  marriage  was,  as  other 
marriages,  duly  recorded  in  fashionable  newspapers,  and  Mrs. 
Chevenix  took  care  that  etiquette  should  not  be  outraged  by  the 
neglect  of  the  minutest  detail,  by  so  much  as  a  quarter  of  an 
inch  on  the  wrong  side  in  the  depth  of  the  bride's  Honiton 
flounces,  or  a  hackneyed  dish  among  the  entrees  at  the  breakfast. 

So  these  two  were  made  one,  and  went  oiF  together  in  the  con- 
ventional carriage-and-fonr  from  Eaton-place  to  Paddingtcn 
Station,  en  route  for  the  Malvern  Hills,  where  they  were  to  moou 
away  a  fortnight  as  best  they  might,  and  then  come  back  to 
town  in  time  for  Ascot  races. 

Now — these  chapters  being  purely  retrospective— comes  the 
autumn  of  the  fifth  year  after  Mr.  Forde'a  farewell  to  Hawleigh. 


CHAPTER  V. 

**  I  strive  to  number  o'er  what  daya 

Kemembrance  can  discover, 
VHiich  all  that  life  or  earth  displays 

Would  lure  me  to  live  over. 
There  rose  no  day,  there  roll'd  no  hoTir 

Of  pleasure  unembitter'd  ; 
And  not  a  trapping  deck'd  my  power 

That  gall'd  not  while  it  glitter'd." 

They  were  at  Slogh-na-Dyack,  in  Argyleshire,  where,  at  the 
foot  of  a  heather-clothed  mountain  that  ran  up  almost  perpen- 
dicialarly  to  meet  the  skies.  Lord  Paulyn  had  bought  for  himself 
a  palatial  abode,  in  that  Norman-Gothic  style  which  pervades 
the  mansions  of  the  North — a  massive  pile  of  buildings  flanked 
by  sugar-loaf  towers,  with  one  tall  turret  dominating  the  rest,  as 
a  look-out  for  the  lord  of  the  castle  when  it  was  his  fancy  to 
sweep  the  waters  with  his  falcon  gaze.  It  is  almost  impossible 
to  imagine  a  more  delicious  habitation,  sheltered  front  and  rear 
by  those  lofty  hills,  the  blue  waters  of  the  Kyles  of  Bute  lap- 
ping against  its  garden  terrace ;  a  climate  equal  to  Torquay ; 
long  ranges  of  orchard  houses  where  peaches  and  nectarines  ^^ 
ripened  as  under  Italian  skies  ;  orangeries,  vineries,  iwneriea ; 
stabling  of  unlimited  capacity,  but  chiefly  devoted  to  such 
sturdy  ponies  as  could  best  tread  those  rugged  mountain  roads  ; 
verily,  all  that  the  soul  of  a  Solomon  himself,  in  the  plenitude 
of  his  power  and  riches,  could  desire  ;  in  the  golden  autumn, 
when  the  grain  was  still  ripening  for  the  late  northern  harvest, 
making  patches  of  vivid  yellow  here  and  there  upon  the  gentler 
cslopes   at  the    base  of   the   opposite   hills,   when   the  pu^pie' 


2G0  Strangers  and  ^Pilgrims. 

Jeather,  like  a  Eoman  Emperor's  mantle,  was  spread  over  the 
ajountain. 

The  Norman  castle  was  none  of  Lord  Paulyn's  building.  Not 
in  those  mediaeval  fancies  of  keep  and  donjon,  not  in  those 
architectural  caprices  of  machicolated  battlements  and  elabo- 
rately-cai'ved  mullions,  did  the  heir  of  all  the  Paulyns  squander 
that  wealth  which  the  dowager  had  accumulated  by  unheard-of 
scrapings  and  pinchings  anfl.  self-denials  during  his  long 
minority.  The  chateau  of  Slogh-na-Dyack  had  been  erected  at 
the  cost  of  a  millionaii-e  Glasgow  manufacturer,  who  had  made 
jiis  money  out  of  knife-powder  and  scoiiring-paper,  and  who, 
when  he  had  built  for  himself  this  lordly  dwelling-house,  had  the 
mortification  of  discovering  that  neither  his  wife  nor  children 
would  consent  to  abide  there.  The  heather-clad  mountain,  the 
blue  water,  the  wide  bosom  of  Loch  Fyne  stretching  away  in  the 
distance,  the  wild  denizens  of  that  mountain  region,  the  flutter 
of  whose  strong  wings  gladdened  the  heart  of  the  sportsman, 
might  be  all  very  well ;  and  to  three  cr  four  weeks  at  Rothesay 
or  Colintrave  in  the  bathing  season  the  lady  and  her  daughters 
had  no  objection;  but  a  fixed  residence,  six  months  out  of  the 
twelve,  on  that  lonely  shore,  they  steadfastly  refused  to  endure.  So 
the  scouring-paper  and  knife-powder  manufacturer,  to  whom  the 
cost  of  a  Norman  castle  more  or  less  was  a  mere  bagatelle,  gave  hia 
Bgent  orders  to  dispose  of  the  chateau  at  the  earliest  opportunity, 
and  resigned  himself  to  the  sacrifice  involved  in  such  a  sale.  The 
house  and  its  appurtenances  had  cost  him  five-and-twenty  thou- 
sand, the  land  five.  He  sold  the  whole  to  Lord  Paulyn — after 
prolonged  hagghng,  in  which  at  last  the  Glasgow  manufacturer 
showed  himself  unequal  to  the  English  nobleman — for  seventeen 
thousand,  and  went  home,  after  signing  the  contract,  to  his 
•mansion  by  the  West  Park,  rejoiced  to  be  rid  of  his  useless  toy. 

Lord  Paulyn  had  been  chiefly  attracted  to  the  place  by  its 
peculiar  capacities  for  the  abode  of  a  yachting  man.  Slogh-na- 
Dyack  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  bay,  where  there  was  anchorage 
for  lialfa-dozen  yachts  of  the  largest  calibre;  while  on  one  side 
of  the  mansion  there  was  a  narrow  inlet  to  a  secondary  harbour, 
a  bay  within  a  bay,  a  little  basin  hollowed  out  of  the  hills, 
where, when  tempests  were  raging,  the  frailest  bark  might  ride 
Bccure,  so  perfect  was  the  shelter,  so  lofty  the  natural  screen  that 
fenced  it  from  the  witids.  It  was  a  harbour  for  fairies,  a  calm 
lakelet  in  which,  on  moonlit  nights,  one  would  have  scarcely 
been  surprised  to  find  Titania  and  her  company  sporting  with 
the  silvern  spray. 

Hither  Reginald  Paulyn  brought  his  wife  after  they  had  been 
married  about  two  years  and  a  half  It  was  her  fir-st  visit,  ex- 
cept for  a  flying  glimpse  of  those  mountain  slopes  from  her  hus- 
band's yacht,  to  Scotland — Ida  land,  her  first  lover's  native  land. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  2G7 

The  thought  thrilled  her  even  now,  when  the  remembrance  of  the 
days  in  which  he  had  loved  her  was  like  the  memory  of  a  dream. 

She  had  been  married  two  years  and  a  half;  years  in  which 
she  had  drained  the  cup  of  worldly  pleasure,  and  of  womanly 
sorrow  also,  to  the  very  lees.  She  had  run  riot  in  fashionable 
extravagances  ;  given  some  of  the  most  popular  parties  in 
London,  in  the  house  with  the  many  balconies ;  won  for  herself 
the  brilliant  distinction  that  attends  social  success ;  queened  i\ 
over  all  compeers  by  the  insolence  of  her  beauty,  the  dash  and 
sparkle  of  her  manner.  For  a  little  while — so  long  as  the 
glamour  lasted,  and  selfishness  was  subjugated  by  the  intoxica- 
tion of  novelty — she  had  ruled  her  husband;  then  had  come 
disputes,  in  which  she  had  been  for  the  chief  part  triumphant ; 
then  later  disputes,  in  which  his  dogged  strength  of  will  had 
conquered;  then  coldness,  severance,  estrangement,  each  tug- 
ging at  the  chain,  eager  to  go  his  or  her  own  way.  But  before 
the  world — that  world  for  which  Elizabeth  had  chosen  to  live — 
Lord  and  Lady  Paulyn  appeared  still  a  very  happy  young 
couple,  a  delightful  example  of  that  most  delightful  fact  in 
natural  history — a  love  match. 

Their  quarrels  at  the  worst,  and  they  had  been  exceedingly 
bitter,  had  hardly  been  about  the  most  serious  things  upon 
which  men  and  women  could  disagree.  Money  matters,  my 
lady's  extravagance,  had  been  the  chief  disturbing  influence. 
The  breast  of  neither  husband  nor  wife  had  been  troubled  with 
the  pangs  of  jealousy.  Elizabeth's  conduct  as  a  matron  was 
irreproachable.  In  the  very  vortex  of  fashionable  frivolity  no 
transient  breath  of  suspicion  had  ever  tarnished  the  brightness 
of  her  name.  The  Yiscount,  in  his  unquestionable  liberty,  had 
ample  room  and  verge  enough  for  any  sin  against  his  marriage 
vow  were  he  inclined  to  be  a  sinner,  but  as  yet  Elizabeth  had 
never  stooped  to  suspect.  Their  estrangement  therefore  had 
not  its  root  in  those  soul-consuming  jealousies  which  sunder 
some,  unions.  Their  disputes  were  of  a  more  sordid  nature,  the 
wranglings  of  two  worldly-minded  beings  bent  on  their  own 
selfish  pleasures. 

Eighteen  months  after  their  marriage  there  came  the  one  real 
affliction  of  Elizabeth's  womanhood.  A  son  had  been, born  to 
her,  fair  as  the  first  offspring  of  youth  and  beauty,  a  noble  soul 
— or  so  it  seemed  to  her — looking  out  of  those  clear  childish 
eyes,  a  child  who  had  the  inspired  seraphic  look  of  the  holy 
Babe  in  a  picture  by  Raffaelle,  and  whose  budding  nature  gave 
promise  of  a  glorious  manhood.  He  was  only  a  few  months 
old — a  few  months  which  made  up  the  one  pure  and  perfect 
episode  in  Elizabeth's  life — when  he  was  taken  away  from  her, 
not  lost  without  bitterest  struggles,  vainest  fondest  hopes, 
deepest  deapair.     For  a  little  while  after  his  death  the  mother'i 


2C8  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

liife  also  tung  in  the  balance,  reason  tottered,  dai-kness  and 
honor  shut  out  the  light.  Dragged  through  this  tangle  of 
mind  and  body,  no  one  seeming  to  know  very  clearly  which  waa 
out  of  joint,  by  physic  which  seemed  to  hinder  or  nature  which 
finally  healed,  the  bereaved  mother  went  back  to  the  world,  and 
tried  to  strangle  grief  in  the  endless  coil  of  pleasure ;  worked 
harder  than  a  horse  at  a  mill,  and  smiled  sometimes  with  a 
heart  that  ached  to  agony;  had  brief  flashes  of  excitement  that 
seemed  like  happiness ;  defied  memory ;  tried  to  extinguish 
regret  for  the  tender  being  she  had  loved  in  a  more  exclusiv  i 
devotion  to  self;  grew  day  by  day  harder  and  more  worldly ; 
lost  even  the  power  to  compassionate  the  distress  of  others,  say- 
ing to  herself  in  a  rebellious  spirit,  "  Is  there  any  sorrow  like 
unto  my  sorrow  ?  " 

To  Lord  Paulyn  the  loss  of  his  first-born  had  been  a  blow, 
but  not  an  exceeding  heavy  one.  He  had  considered  the  baby 
a  fine  little  fellow,  had  caressed  him,  and  tossed  him  in  the  air 
occasionally,  at  somewhat  remote  intervals,  after  the  approved 
fashion  of  fathers,  while  smirking  nurses  marvelled  at  his  lord- 
ship's condescension ;  but  he  was  not  broken  down  by  the  loss 
of  him.  He  was  a  young  man,  and  was  not  in  a  desperate 
hurry  for  an  heir.  He  had  something  of  that  feeling  which 
monarchs  have  been  said  to  entertain  upon  the  subject  of  theii 
eldest  sons,  an  inclination  to  regard  the  heir-apparent  as  a 
memento  mori. 

"  By  Jove,  you  know,  it  isn't  the  liveliest  thing  to  look  for- 
ward to,"  he  had  said  to  his  friends  when  arguing  upon  the 
subject  in  the  abstract;  "a  young  fellow  who'll  go  and  dip 
himself  up  to  the  hilt  with  a  pack  of  money-lenders,  and  borrow 
on  post-obits,  and  play  old  gooseberry  with  his  father's  estate 
by  the  time  he  is  twenty-one,  and  perhaps  make  a  finish  by 
marrying  a  ballet-girl  before  he's  twenty-two." 

It  was  after  a  season  of  surpassing  brilliancy,  an  unbroken 
round  of  gaieties,  involving  the  expenditure  of  so  much  money 
that  Lord  Paulyn  groaned  and  gnashed  his  teeth  when  the 
butler  brought  in  the  midsummer  bills — a  season  which  had 
ended  in  the  most  serious  quarrel  Elizabeth  and  her  husband 
had  ever  had — that  the  Viscount  brought  his  wife  _  to  this 
Norman  chateau,  not  in  love  but  in  anger,  intending  this 
banishment  to  the  coast  of  Argyle  as  a  means  of  bringing  the 
lady  to  a  due  sense  of  her  iniquities  and  a  meek  submission  to 
his  will. 

"  She'll  find  it  rather  difficult  to  get  rid  of  money  there,''  he 
eaid  to  himself,  with  a  sardonic  grin,  "  and  I  shall  take  care  to 
fill  the  house  with  visitors  of  ray  own  choosing.  There'll  be 
Hilda,  too,  to  look  after  my  interest.  Yes,  I  think  I  shall  have 
the  upper  hand  at  Slofh-na-Dyack." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrinis.  269 

This  was  another  change  which  the  last  year  had  brought  to 
pass.  Just  at  the  end  of  the  London  season — happening  so 
opportunely  after  the  last  ball  at  Buckingham  Palace,  as 
Madame  Passementerie,  the  French  milliner,  ventured  to 
remark  to  Lady  Paulyn's  maid,  Gimp — the  noble  house  of 
Paulyn  had  been  thrown  into  mourning  by  the  demise  of  the 
dowager. 

"  The  noble  lady  had  led  a  life  of  extreme  seclusion  through- 
out a  prolonged  widowhood,"  said  the  obituary  notice  in  a 
fashionable  journal ;  "  thus  offering  the  most  touching  tribute 
which  affection  can  pay  to  those  it  has  cherished  while  on 
earth,  and  still  fondly  mourns  when  transferred  to  a  higher 
sphere.  Honoured  and  beloved  alike  by  equals  and  dependants, 
Bhe  was  the  centre  and  source  of  all  good  to  those  who  came 
within  her  peaceful  circle,  and  she  was  followed  to  her  last 
resting-place  in  the  family  vault  in  old  Ashcombe  church  by  a 
train  of  friends,  tenants,  and  retainers,  in  which  long  procession 
of  mourners  there  was  not  one  who  did  not  lament  the  loss  of  a 
valued  friend  or  an  honoured  benefactress."  The  notice  had 
been  written  for  another  patrician  widow,  but  served  very  well 
for  Lady  Paulyn,  about  whom  the  editors  of  newspapers  knew 
little  or  nothing. _  She  had  lived  a  retired  life  in  the  depths  of 
the  country,  and  it  was  argued  that  she  must  of  necessity  have 
been  benevolent  and  beloved. 

Her  death,  at  the  age  of  seventy-four,  had  been  occasioned  by 
an  accident.  Sitting  up  one  night  in  her  dressing-room  after 
the  household  had  retired,  poring  over  her  agent's  last  accounts, 
she  had  set  fire  to  her  cap,  an  elaborate  construction  of  blonde 
and  ribbons,  and  had  been  a  good  deal  burnt  about  the  head 
and  face  before  Hilda,  who  slept  in  an  adjacent  room,  and  was 
promptly  awakened  by  her  screams,  could  rush  to  her  rescue. 

Her  constitution,  vigorous  to  the  last,  held  out  for  a  little 
while  against  grim  death,  but  the  shock  proved  too  much  for 
the  aged  frame,  whose  sap  and  muscle  had  been  wasted  by  the 
asceticism  of  economy.  The  dowager  died  a  few  hours  after 
telegrams  and  express  trains  had  brought  her  son  to  her  bed- 
side. 

As  she  had  only  consented  to  be  just  barely  civil  to  Elizabeth  in 
their  unfrequent  intercourse,  it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  hei 
departure  from  this  world  could  be  a  profound  affliction  to  the 
reigning  Viscountess.  She  was  sorry  that  her  mother-in-law's 
death  should  have  been  a  painful  one,  and  perhaps  that  was 
all. 

"  What  a  pity  old  people  can't  die  like  that  person  in  Mrs. 
Thrak's  Three  Warnings!"  she  said  afterwards.  "  Death  ought 
to  come  quietly  to  fetch  them,  without  any  unnecessary 
Buffering ;  only  a  natural  surprise  and  annoyance  at  being  taeen 

5 


270  Strangen  and  Filgrhns. 

away  against  one's  will,  like  a  cHld  that  is  fetclied  home  from  a 
nursery  ball." 

The  Viscount  contemplated  his  bereavement  chiefly  from  a 
business-like  point  of  view. 

"I  am  afniicl  the  Devonshire  estates  will  go  to  pot  now  my 
poor  mother's  gone,"  he  said  dolefully.  "  I  shall  never  get  any 
one  to  screw  the  tenants  as  she  did.  That  agent  fellow,  Lawson, 
was  only  a  cipher.  It  was  the  old  woman  who  really  did  the 
work,  and  kept  them  up  to  collar.  I  shall  feel  the  difference 
now  she's  gone,  poor  old  soul!" 

"  I  suppose  Miss  Disney  will  go  into  lodgings  at  Torquay  or 
somewhere,  and  live  upon  her  private  means,"  said  Elizabeth, 
hardly  looking  up  from  the  pages  of  a  new  novel  she  was  skim- 
ming, seated  luxuriously  in  one  of  the  Park-lane  balconies,  in  a 
very  bower  of  summer  blossoms,  kept  in  perennial  bloom  by  the 
minions  of  the  nurseryman. 

This  sounded  as  if  she  had  forgotten  a  certain  conversation  in 
a  Devonshire  lane  one  dusky  March  evening. 

"  I  thought  I  told  you  that  Hilda  had  no  means,"  answered 
the  Viscount  rather  gloomily.  "  She  must  come  to  Hve  with 
ns,  of  course." 

•'  "What,  in  our  house,  where  we  live !  Won't  that  be  rather 
like  that  strange  person  who  lives  over  somewhere  beyond  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  and  has  ever  so  many  wives  ?  I'm  sure,  if 
Miss  Disney  is  to  live  with  us,  I  shall  feel  myself  a  number  two." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  such  confounded  nonsense,  Eliza- 
beth. I  suppose  you  pick  up  that  sort  of  thing  from  your 
friends,  who  all  seem  to  talk  the  same  jargon,  turning  up  their 
noses  at  everybody  in  creation." 

"  No,  but  seriously,  can't  Miss  Disney  go  on  living  at  Ash- 
combe?  I  should  think  she  ought  to  be  able  to  screw  the 
tenants ;  she  must  have  learnt  your  poor  mother's  ways." 

"  Miss  Disney  will  have  a  home  in  my  house  wherever  it  is. 
And  I  think  you  ought  to  be  uncommonly  glad  to  get  hold  of  a 
sensible  young  woman  for  a  companion.  As  to  my  keeping  up 
a.  separate  establishment  at  Ashcombe  for  one  person's  accom- 
modation, that's  too  preposterous  an  idea  to  be  entertained  for  a 
moment.  I  shall  try  and  let  the  place  as  it  stands.  You'U  be 
thankful  enough  for  her  society,  I  daresay,  at  Slogh-na-Dyack." 

"  I  shall  have  the  hills  and  the  sea,"  said  Elizabeth ;  "  they 
■will  be  better  company  for  me  than  Miss  Disney." 

She  had  seen  the  chateau  in  the  course  of  a  yachting  expedi- 
tion in  the  autumn  of  last  year,  when  the  Viscount,  sorely 
alarmed  by  the  nature  of  the  illness  that  had  followed  the  loss 
of  her  boy,  had  taken  her  to  roam  the  blue  waters  in  quest  of 
health  and  spirits.  Health  and  spirits  had  come,  in  some  measure 
— health  that  was  fitful,  spirits  that  were  apt  to  be  forced  and 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  271 

spurious,  a  laugli  that  had  a  false  ring  in  it,  mirtli  •wliic'h  soundftd 
sweet  enough  at  one  time,  but  jangled,  out  of  tune,  and  harsh 
at  another. 

So  the  Viscount  wrote  to  inform  Hilda  Disney  that  hence- 
forth her  life  was  to  be  spent  in  his  household — wrote  as  briefly 
and  unceremoniously  as  he  might  have  written  to  a  housemaid  ^ 
— and  a  week  later  Miss  Disney  came  to  Park-lane,  covered  with  % 
crape,  pale,  placid,  impenetrable.  Elizabeth  made  a  great  effort 
over  herself  in  order  to  receive  this  new-comer  with  some  faint 
show  of  kindness. 

"I  hope  you  two  mean  to  get  on  well  together,"  said  the 
Viscount,  in  a  little  speech  that  sounded  like  a  command. 

"I  have  no  doubt  we  shall  get  on  remarkably  well — if  we 
don't  interfere  with  each  other,"  answered  Elizabeth.  "  I 
believe  that  is  the  secret  of  a  harmonious  household." 

This  was  an  intimation  designed  to  give  Miss  Disney  a  correct 
idea  of  her  position,  a  hint  which  that  young  lady  fully  com- 
prehended. 

She  accepted  this  position  with  a  certain  quiet  grace  which 
might  have  won  the  heart  of  any  one  who  had  a  heart  to  be  won. 
Elizabeth's  had  been  given  away  twice  over,  once  to  Malcolm 
Forde,  once  to  her  lost  baby.  Her  small  stock  of  love  had  been 
spent  on  these  two.  There  was  no  room  in  her  cold  weary  heart 
for  anything  but  the  ashes  of  that  old  fire — certainly  no  admis- 
sion for  Hilda  Disney.  But  as  at  this  stage  of  affairs  that 
young  person  appeared  content  to  be  a  cipher  in  her  new  home, 
Elizabeth's  languid  indifference  was  not  kindled  into  active 
dislike.  She  tolerated  the  intruder,  but  at  the  same  time 
avoided  her.  This  was  the  position  of  affairs  when  Lord 
Paulyn  and  a  few  chosen  friends  began  Hfe  and  grouse-shooting 
on  the  moors  ai-ound  Slogh-na-Dyack. 

To  Elizabeth's  jaded  spirits,  worn  out  by  the  small  excite- 
ments of  society,  the  change  was  at  first  a  welcome  one.  It 
was  pleasant  uo  nnd  herself  mistress  of  a  new  domain,  which 
differed  widely  from  her  other  dominions.  Very  pleasant  to  be 
remote  from  the  region  of  racehorses  and  trainers,  and  trial 
gallops  and  experimental  exercise  of  rival  two-year  olds,  in  thft 
'jewy  dawn  of  autumnal  mornings ;  trials  in  which,  out  of  mere 
politeness,  she  had  been  obliged  sometimes  to  affect  an  interest. 
The  novelty  of  the  Norman  castle  and  its  surroundings  de- 
lighted her ;  nor  was  she  discouraged  by  its  seclusion,  or  par- 
ticularly afflicted  by  the  usurpation  of  the  limited  number  of 
epare  bedrooms  by  her  husband's  sporting  cronies,  whereby  she 
was  deprived  of  the  society  of  half-a-dozen  or  so  of  her  own 
dearest  friends,  whose  reception  she  had  planned  as  one  of  the 
amusements  of  her  Scottish  home.  The  architect  whose 
InedifBval  mind  had  designed  Slogh-'*"-Dyack  had  refused  to 


272  Strangers  and  Pilgrims, 

fritter  away  iiis  space  upon  spais  bedrooms,  reserving  his  re« 
sources  for  sugar-loaf  turrets,  donjons,  keeps,  gothic  balconies, 
perforated  battlements,  picture-galleries,  a  banqoeting-ball  with 
a  groined  roof  and  a  musicians'  gallery,  a  tennis-court,  and  a 
cloistered  walk  under  the  drawing-room  floor. 

"  You  will  have  to  build  me  a  new  wing  next  year,  Reginald," 
Jjady  Paulyn  observed,  after  expressing  her  general  approval  of 
the  chateau.  "  It  is  all  very  well  for  us  to  exist  in  this  benighted 
manner — for  I  don't  count  your  shooting  people  as  visitors — for 
once  in  a  way,  but  we  couldn't  possibly  exist  here  another  yeat 
without  a  dozen  or  so  more  rooms." 

"  Couldn't  we  ?  "  said  the  Viscount,  putting  on  his  sullen  air, 
which  meant  war  to  the  knife.  "  I  chose  Slogh-na-Dyack 
just  because  it  was  a  little  out  of  the  beaten  track — not  much 
though,  for  people  go  to  Oban  nowadays  just  as  they  used  to 
go  to  Brighton— and  because  it  has  precious  little  accommoda- 
tion for  your  cackling  brood  of  dear  friends,  no  stowage  for 
French  waiting-maids  and  such  rubbish — a  place  where  I  could 
feel  myself  master,  and  where  I  might  expect  you  would  even 
take  the  trouble  to  devote  a  Uttle  time  to  my  society." 

EUzabeth  yawned. 

"  To  hear  you  talk  about  shooting  innocent  birds,  and  of  what 
your  horses  are  going  to  do  next  year,  and  what  they  ought  to 
nave  done,  but  did  not  do,  this  year.  What  a  pity  there  should 
be  such  a  sameness  in  domestic  conversation ! " 

"  I  suppose  you  would  like  it  better  if  I  could  talk  about  con- 
verting the  heathen,"  snarled  the  Yiscount.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  he  had  tried  to  sting  his  wife  with  an  allusion  to  the 
lover  who  jilted  her. 

"  I  should  like  it  better  if  you  had  a  mind  wide  enough  to  be 
interested  in  human  beings,  instead  of  in  dogs  and  horses,"  she 
answered,  flashing  out  at  him  passionately. 

Miss  Disney  was  a  mute  witness  of  this  little  scene,  but  a 
msre  cipher,  whose  presence  had  no  restraining  influence. 

"  I  shall  not  think  of  coming  here  next  year  unless  there  are 
some  more  rooms  built,"  Elizabeth  remarked  decisively,  after  a 
little  more  skirmishing. 

"  We  needn't  talk  about  coming  next  year  until  we  have  quite 
made  up  our  minds  to  go  away.  This  place  has  a  famous 
winter  climate,"  said  the  Viscount,  looking  into  a  huge  sealskia 
case,  as  if  in  search  of  some  rare  species  of  cigar,  the  selection 
whereof  was  a  work  of  time.  He  had  a  knack  of  looking  down 
when  he  said  disagreeable  things. 

"  I  could  not  endure  the  place  for  more  than  two  months," 
replied  his  wife,  "  and  I  have  made  engagements  for  December." 

"  That's  a  pity ;  for  I  have  invited  some  feUowa  here  for 
Christmas." 


strangers  and  Pilgrims.  273 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  at  liberty  to  entei'tain  them — with  Miss 
Disney's  assistance.  I  shall  resign  all  my  privileges  as  chate- 
laine at  the  end  of  November." 

"  We'll  see  about  that,"  said  Lord  Paulyn  darlcly.  But  as  he 
had  often  uttered  this  mystic  threat,  and  nothing  had  ever  come 
of  it,  except  that  Elizabeth  had  always  had  her  own  way,  in 
spite  of  him,  the  lady  was  not  appalled  by  his  dark  speech. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Lady  Paulyn  was  always 
uncivil  to  her  husband,  that  she  flouted  him  in  season  and  out 
of  season.  She  had  her  intervals  of  sunshine  and  sweetness ; 
smiled  upon  him  as  she  did  upon  society,  and  with  almost 
as  empty  a  smile;  bewitched  him  even  with  something  of  the 
old  witchery ;  for,  despite  his  numerous  aggi'avations,  he  still 
admired  her,  and  still  fondly  beUeved  her  the  handsomest 
woman  in  Europe. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  Hilda  Disney  first  entered 
their  household ;  but  their  domestic  Ufe  underwent  a  gradual 
change  after  her  coming.  It  was  as  if  by  some  subtle  influence  she 
widened  the  gulf  between  them,  without  design,  without  malice, 
but  only  by  her  presence.  If  she  had  been  a  statue,  she  could 
scarcely  have  seemed  more  innocent  of  evil  intention,  more  un- 
conscious of  the  harm  she  did ;  yet  she  parted  them  irrevocably. 

She  offended  the  wife  by  no  demonstrative  affection  for 
the  husband;  yet,  by  an  unobtrusive  concern  for  his  comfort, 
a  perpetual  soHcitude,  an  unsleeping  care  of  his  well-being, 
shown  in  the  veriest  trifles,  but  shown  almost  hourly,  she  made 
his  wife's  indifference  a  thousand  times  more  obvious  than 
it  had  ever  been  before.  By  her  interest  in  his  conversation,  by 
her  appreciation  of  his  vapid  jokes,  her  acute  perception  of  the 
smallest  matters  in  which  his  prosperity  or  success  was  involved, 
she  reminded  him  of  his  wife's  utter  apathy  about  all  these 
things.  One  of  the  grievances  of  his  married  life  was  the  fact  that 
he  had  never  been  able  to  interest  EUzabeth  in  the  details  of  his 
racing  stud,  those  narrow  chances  and  hairbreadth  failures 
which  make  or  mar  the  fortunes  of  the  year.  She  liked  Epsom 
and  Ascot  and  Newmarket  and  Goodwood  and  Doncaster 
and  York  well  enough  as  scenes  of  gaiety  and  excitement — 
festivals  in  which  her  beauty  made  her  a  kind  of  queen.  She 
could  even  admire  a  winmng  horse  as  a  grand  and  famous 
creature ;  but  she  had  not  a  mathematical  brain,  and  could  not 
by  any  means  comprehend  that  intricate  process  of  calculation 
by  which  great  results  are  sometimes  arrived  at  in  the  racing 
world,  and  by  which  the  Napoleons  of  the  turf  accumulate 
their  colossal  fortunes. 

In  this  she  was  the  very  reverse  of  Hilda,  whose  arithmetical 
powers  had  been  trained  to  extreme  acnteness  in  the  service  of 
the   late   dowager,   and  who,   without   any   natural   fondness 


274  Strangers  and  Pilgrimg. 

for  horses,  could  enter  into  all  the  complications  of  a  betting- 
book  ;  could  even,  on  some  rare  occasion,  give  a  wrinkle  to  the 
Viscount  himself,  as  that  gentleman  remarked  with  supreme 
astonishment. 

"  Upon  ray  word,  you  know,  Hilda,  you're  the  downiest  bird 
— I  beg  your  pardon,  the  cleverest  woman  I  ever  met  with.  If 
mv  wife  had  ocly  your  brains " 

"  With  her  own  beauty  !  That  would  be  too  much.  'Soi. 
that  my  Irams  are  anything  to  boast  of,  but  I  have  been 
trained  in  a  rather  severe  school." 

"  I  should  think  yoii  have  indeed ;  my  mother  was  an  out-and- 
outer.  I  don't  believe  there  was  ever  such  a  screw,  you  know, 
before  her  time,  or  ever  will  be  after  it.  There  ought  to  be 
somethir.g  of  the  kind  put  up  in  Ashcombe  church,  by  Jove. 
It  would  look  well  in  Latin — that  quotation  of  Burke's,  for 
instance :  Magnutn  vectigal  est  famimonia.  But  you  have  got 
a  wider  way  of  looking  at  this  than  my  mother.  And  as 
for  looks,  if  you're  not  as  handsome  as  Elizabeth,  who  really  is 
the  finest  woman  in  Europe,  you've  no  reason  to  complain 
of  your  share  of  good  looks ;  and  you  know  there  was  a  day 
when  I  used  to  say  a  good  deal  more  than  that." 

A  faint  colour  came  into  Hilda's  fair  face. 

"  We  were  children  then,"  she  said. 

"  0,  hang  it ;  I  was  at  Oxford,  and  in  the  University  eight. 
There  wasn't  much  of  the  child  about  me,  Hilda." 

"Except  in  a  childish  want  of  judgment — not  knowing  your 
own  mind,  in  short,"  she  answered,  looking  down  at  a  flimsy 
printed  catalogue  of  racehorses  which  they  had  been  studying 
together  when  this  conversation  began. 

"  0,  well,  we  settled  all  that  ever  so  long  ago.  Let  bygones 
be  bygones,  Hilda." 

"  Was  it  I  who  recalled  the  past  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  it  wasn't  I,"  answered  Lord  Paulyn  hastily,  "  and 
J  don't  want  to  recall  it.  I  don't  forget  what  a  temper  you  had 
in  those  days,  Hilda.  Children  indeed !  You  were  a  child 
who  knew  how  to  call  a  fellow  over  the  coals  like  anything, 
['ve  a  very  keen  recollection  of  some  of  our  shindies.  However, 
all  that  was  so  long  ago,  and  I'm  an  old  married  man  now;  so 
I  thought  we  should  be  able  to  get  on  very  well  together.  And 
I  must  say  you're  wonderfully  improved;  ten  years'  more 
grinding  in  my  mother's  mill  has  made  a  diflfcrence,  hasn't  it?" 

"  I  hope  I  have  conquered  my  evil  tempers,  and  everything 
else  that  was  foolish  in  me,"  said  Hilda  meekly. 

That  little  demure  speech  of  Miss  Disney's  set  the  Viscount 
thinking.  Ten  years  ago  there  had  been  certain  love-passagea 
between  himself  and  his  cousin — a  pretty  little  pastoral 
flirtation,  which  filled  the  intervals  of  his  field  sports  plcasantlf 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  275 

«nougli — but  which,  begun  for  the  amusement  of  long  dull 
eutumnal  afternoons  in  a  dreary  old  house,  ended  somewhat 
ceriously.  The  girl  had  been  serious  from  the  beginning.  Her 
cousin,  Eeginald,  was  the  only  man  whose  society  had  ever 
brightened  the  dismalities  of  her  joyless  home.  He  was  young, 
good-looking,  energetic,  and  possessed  that  superfluity  of 
physical  strength  which  gives  a  kind  of  dash  and  swagger 
to  a  man's  manner  of  doing  things— a  dash  and  swagger 
that,  in  the  eyes  of  inexperienced  girlhood,  pass  for  couraga 
and  chivalry.  He  rode  well,  shot  superbly,  talked  the  last 
Oxonian  slang,  the  novelty  of  which  language  w«s  agreeable 
after  the  dowager's  dull  grumblings  and  perpetual  prosingupon 
small  worries.  In  a  word,  he  was  the  only  thing  Hilda  Disney 
had  to  love,  and  she  loved  him,  hiding  more  intensity  than  he 
could  have  suspected  under  her  placid  demeanour. 

For  a  short  time— a  long  vacation  and  a  Christmas  visit 
— he  reciprocated  her  passion.  The  fair  still  face  seemed 
to  him  the  perfection  of  patrician  beauty — a  wonderful  rehef 
after  certain  sirens  of  the  barmaid  order  with  whose  lighter  eon- 
verse  he  was  wont  to  soften  the  asperities  of  classic  learning. 
He  had  vague  thoughts  of  a  future  in  which  Hilda  should  be 
his  wife ;  and  was  severely  rated  by  his  widowed  parent  upon 
the  folly  of  his  course.  Marry  Hilda,  indeed,  without  a 
sixpence,  or  a  rag  to  her  back  that  was  not  supplied  by  charity. 
He  had  better  pick  up  a  beggar  girl  in  the  street  at  once, 
and  then  his  next-of-kin  would,  at  least,  have  the  satisfaction  of 
taking  out  a  statute  of  lunacy  on  his  behalf. 

But  the  passion  passed — as  passions  were  apt  to  pass  with 
the  Viscount.  A  barmaid  flirtation — more  in  earnest  than  pre- 
vious barmaid  flirtations — blotted  out  the  milder  charms  of  his 
cousin.  When  he  came  to  Ashcombe  in  the  next  long  vacation, 
he  thought  her  looking  pale  and  faded.  Nor  was  her  temper 
improved.  She  perceived  his  indiff"erence,  and  taxed  him  with 
it.  Then  came  bitter  litt<b  speeches,  sudden  bursts  of  tears, 
angry  rushes  from  the  room,  hangings  of  doors,  and  all  the 
varieties  of  squabbling  that  compose  lovers'  quarrels;  until  at 
last,  with  a  praiseworthy  candour,  the  Viscount  confessed  that 
he  had  for  some  time  past  ceased  to  care  for  his  cousin,  except 
in  the  most  cousinly  way. 

"  If  ever  you're  in  want  of  a  friend,  you  know,  Hilda,  you  can 
eome  to  me;  and  wherever  I  Uve,  by  and  by,  when  my  mother 
gots  off  the  hooks— my  house  will  be  your  home,  if  you  haven't 
one  of  your  own." 

She  acknowledged  this  offer  with  some  dignity,  but  with  a 
very  white  face  and  Hps  that  quivered  faintly  in  spite  of  her 
firmness,  and  expressed  the  hope  that  she  might  never  intrude 
upon  hia  hospitality. 


276  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

"  Well,  I  hope  you'll  make  a  good  match,  Hilda,"  he  said, 
rather  awkwardly,  "  and  then,  of  course,  you'll  be  independent 
of  me  and  mine ;  but  I  shall  never  forget  you,  and  how  fond  I 
was  of  you,  and  all  that.  O,  by  the  way,  you  may  as  well  give 
me  back  the  letters  I  wrote  you  from  Oxford.  One  never  knows 
when  that  sort  of  rubbish  may  fall  into  dangerous  hands,  and 
make  no  end  of  mischief.  Hunt  'em  all  up,  will  you,  Hilda  ?  and 
we'll  amuse  ourselves  with  a  bonfire  this  wet  morning." 

Hilda  informed  him,  after  a  few  moments'  hesitation,  that  she 
had  made  the  bonfire  already. 

"  I  burnt  them  one  by  one  as  they  came,  after  I  had  read 
them  once  or  twice,"  she  said.  "  It  was  safer  on  account  of  my 
aunt.  The  surest  way  of  preventing  them  from  falling  into 
dangerous  hands." 

"  What  a  deep  card  you  ar^  ! — as  deep  as  Garrick,  upon  my 
word.     You're  quite  sure  you  buiTit  them  ?" 

"  Quite  sure.  Don't  be  alarmed,  Eeginald.  There  will  be  no 
action  for  breach  of  promise." 

"  0,  it  isn't  that,  you  know.  'No  girl  with  a  hap'orth  of  self- 
yespect  would  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing ;  much  less  such  a 
girl  as  you.  Only  old  letters  are  the  deuce  and  all  for  creating 
trouble  in  a  man's  life.     I'm  glad  you  burnt  'em." 

Never  since  these  juvenile  love-passages,  which  left  a  somewhat 
unpleasant  flavour  in  Lord  Paulyn's  mouth — a  flavour  of  remorse, 
perhaps — had  he  liked  Hilda  so  well  as  he  liked  her  now,  in 
their  quiet  life  at  Slogh-na-Dyack.  She  was  of  so  much  use  to 
him — so  able  a  counsellor,  so  ready  a  confidante.  He  gave  her 
a  pile  of  his  house-steward's  bills  to  look  over,  and  she  charmed 
him  at  once  by  suggesting  that  he  should,  in  future,  pay  ready 
money  for  all  household  supplies — or  make  weekly  payments,  to 
be  ranked  as  ready  money — and  claim  a  discount  of  ten  percent 
n  all  such  accounts. 

"No  doubt  the  tradesmen  pay  your  people  five  per  cent 
already,"  she  said.  "  They  would  willingly  pay  you  ten  for  the 
sake  of  getting  ready  money.  Your  discounts  ought  to  pay 
the  wages  of  half  your  household,  instead  of  going  into  the 
servants'  pockets." 

By  such  brilliant  flashes  of  genius  did  Hilda  charm  her 
cousin.  He  groaned  aloud  as  he  compared  this  skilled  econo- 
mist with  his  wife,  whose  extravagances  still  rankled  in  his  mind, 
and  whose  refusal  of  a  settled  allowance  he  had  not  ceased  to 
consider  an  artful  stroke  of  business,  whereby  she  had  reserved 
to  herself  the  right  of  unlimited  expenditure. 

"  If  ever  I  let  her  leave  Slogh-na-Dyack,  I  shall  restrict  her 
to  an  allowance  of  five  hundred  a  year,"  he  said  to  himself. 
But  there  were  times  when  the  spirit  of  anger  against  his  wife 
burnt  so  fiercely  within  him,  that  he  had  serious  thoughts  of 


strangers  and  Filjrims.  277 

making  tier  spend  the  rest  of  her  life  in  Arfryleshire,  with  only 
Buch  change  of  scene  as  his  yacht  might  atford  her — a  cruise 
in  the  iSIediterranean  now  and  then,  or  a  ran  to  Madeira  or 
St.  Michael's. 

"  It'll  snit  me  well  enough  for  six  months  of  the  year.  I  can 
always  run  up  from  Glasgow  when  there  are  any  races  on," 
reflected  Lord  Paulyn,  who,  after  the  manner  of  racing  men, 
thought  nothing  of  spending  his  night  in  railway  carriages, 
speeding  at  express  rate  over  the  face  of  the  country. 

Elizabeth  perceived  the  harmony  that  reigned  between  her 
husband  and  his  cousin;  perceived  that  he  no  longer  troubled 
himself  with  the  futile  endeavour  to  impart  his  perplexities  to 
her  non-mathematicai  brain.  She  saw  all  this,  and  without 
being  absolutely  jealous — was  jealousy  possible  where  love  was 
absent? — was  keenly  stung  by  this  preference.  She  had  been 
accustomed  to  think  of  her  husband  as  her  slave— a  refractory 
slave  sometimes — but  never  able  to  put  off  his  bondage;  a 
creature  to  be  made  glad  by  her  smile;  to  be  subdued  into 
submission  by  her  frown.  She  had  felt  the  sense  of  her  power 
over  him  all  the  more  keenly  because  in  the  society  of  other 
women  he  was,  for  the  most  part,  morose  or  indifferent — 
wrapped  up  in  his  own  thoughts  about  his  ovro.  amusements  or 
speculations — slow  to  comply  with  the  exigencies  of  poUte  life ; 
a  man  who,  if  he  had  not  been  the  rich  Lord  Paulyn,  might 
have  been  called  a  boor.  To  her  own  chosen  friends  he  had  been 
habitually  uncivil— beauty,  except  her  own,  seemed  to  have  no 
charm  for  him  ;  wit  and  vivacity  only  bored  him.  All  the  graces 
of  feminine  costume  were  a  dead  letter. 

"  I  think  she  wore  cherry  colour,  with  blue  sleeves,"  he 
answered  once,  when  his  wife  questioned  him  upon  a  fashionable 
toilette;  "or  was  it  Lord  Zetland's  colours,  white  and  red? 
Upon  my  soul  I  don't  know  which." 

She  beheld  him  now  for  the  first  time  interested  in  the  society 
of  another  woman,  and  beheld  with  wonder  that  woman's  capa- 
city for  understanding  him  and  sympathising  with  him.  Morti- 
fied by  this  discovery,  she  avenged  herself  at  first  by  reducing 
the  "Viscount's  sporting  friends  to  a  state  of  abject  slavery;  but 
speedily  wearying  of  this  shallow  amusement,  grew  sullen,  shut 
herself  up  in  her  own  rooms — the  best  in  the  house,  occupying 
the  whole  front  of  the  second  story,  and  sweeping  the  waters  of 
the  strait,  and  the  purple  hills  on  the  opposite  side — read, 
sketched,  and  brooded;  or  roamed  alone  upon  the  mountain- 
side, and  thought  of  her  dead-and-gone  youth,  and  the  lover  she 
had  loved  and  lost.  His  image  haunted  her  in  this  lonely 
region — in  this  tranquil,  empty  life — more  than  _  it  had  ever 
daunted  her  since  she  knelt  down  upon  her  bridal  eve  and 
prayed  to  God  for  strength  to  forget  him.     She  was  in  hia 


278  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

native  country  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  and  tliat  she  should 
think  of  him  seemed  only  a  natural  association  of  ideas.  Noi 
was  this  all ;  she  felt  herself  injured  by  her  husband's  evident 
liking  for  his  cousin's  society,  and  so  opened  the  doors  of  her 
heart  to  fatal  memories ;  Hved  again  as  in  a  dream,  her  brief 
summertide  of  joy  and  sorrow ;  gave  up  her  thoughts  to  sad 
musings  u])on  that  foolish  past.  Sometimes  she  varied  the 
burden  of  that  sorrow  by  thinking  of  her  dead  baby — alas  !  ho\^ 
often  in  her  dreams  had  she  felt  those  little  arms  clasped  about 
her  neck,  those  sweet  soft  breathings  on  her  cheek,  and  red  lips 
like  opening  fiowers  pressed  warm  against  her  own !  She  thought 
of  what  that  romantic  home  might  have  been  to  her,  still  blessed 
with  her  boy ;  fancied  the  sunny  noontide  on  the  grassy  slope 
above  the  blue  water,  or  the  terrace  sheltered  from  northern 
winds  by  a  grove  of  pinasters ;  or  in  the  flower-garden  behind 
the  house,  a  fertile  hollow  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain ;  wander- 
ing on  the  mountain  top  with  her  darling  in  her  arms,  the  sum- 
mer air  noisy  with  loud  humming  of  bees,  and  the  sweet  west 
wind  blowing  round  them.  Not  for  her  these  tender  pleasures, 
only  loneliness  and  regret ;  the  bitter  memory  of  things  that 
had  once  been  sweet. 

Pride  stifled  all  expression  of  anger  at  her  husband's  defection. 
Not  by  word  or  look  did  she  betray  her  displeasure  at  the  posi- 
tion which  Hilda  Disney  was  fast  assuming  in  the  household. 
On  the  contrary,  she  sufi'ered  the  reins  to  slip  from  her  hands  aa 
if  weary  of  the  burden  of  government.  Her  old  languor  and 
dislike  of  exertion,  except  in  pursuit  of  some  novel  pleasure,  re- 
turned to  her.  Life  at  Slogh-na-Dyack  was  vci-y  much  like  Ufe 
at  Hawleigh  Vicarage ;  there  was  only  a  d'iff'erence  of  detail. 
Trained  serving-men  in  place  of  a  parlour-maid ;  a  certain  state 
and  splendour  in  all  the  machinery  of  the  household.  The  even- 
ings in  the  long  drawing-room,  with  its  media3val  oak  furniture, 
modern  French  tapestries,  and  Brummagem  armoury,  all  mada 
on  purpose  for  the  chateau  at  the  cost  of  the  Glasgow  knife- 
powder  maker,  were  just  as  dull  as  the  evenings  in  the  old  days, 
when  she  had  yawned  over  a  novel  in  the  society  of  her  three 
sisters.  Lord  Paulyn  and  his  guests  congregated  in  the  smoking- 
room,  or  paced  the  wide  stone  hall,  a  spacious  vaulted  chamber 
always  odorous  with  tobacco,  or  strolled  on  the  terrace,  staring 
at  the  moonlit  water,  and  talking  of  their  day's  work  among  the 
birds.  They  were  men  who  walked  thirty  miles  or  so  between 
breakfast  and  dinner,  and  who,  after  devoting  a  couple  of  hours 
o  their  evening  gorge,  retired  within  themselves  like  boa-con- 
^rictors,  and  were  in  no  manner  dependent  upon  feminine 
Jociety.  So  when  Elizabeth,  weary  of  their  vapid  comphments, 
and  despising  the  petty  triumph  afforded  by  the  subjugation  of 
such  small  deer,  ceased  to  be  particularly  civil  to  then. ,  they 


Strangers  and  Pilgrhnt.  Q79 

deserted  tbe  drawing-room  almost  entirely,  and  solaced  tliem« 
selves  witli  smoke  and  billiards,  or  placid  slumbers,  stretched  at 
ease  upon  morocco-covered  divans,  lulled  by  the  ripple  of  the 
wavelets  that  lapped  against  the  beach. 

Once  in  ten  days  or  so  Lord  Paulyn  sped  southward  for  a 
day's  racing,  generally  accompanied  by  a  chosen  friend,  and  re- 
turned, depressed  or  elated  as  the  case  might  be,  to  talk  over  all 
liis  proceedings — his  triumphs  or  his  failures — with  his  cousin 
Hilda.  These  confabulations,  which  took  place  openly  enough 
in  some  snug  corner  of  the  drawing-room,  wounded  Elizabeth  to 
the  quick.  She  began  to  think  that  all  those  vapid  men  saw 
the  slight  thus  put  upon  her,  and  discussed  it  in  their  smoking- 
room  conclaves.  She  began  to  fancy  that  her  very  servants 
were  losing  some  touch  of  their  old  reverence ;  that  her  maid  had 
a  compassionate  air. 

"  Shall  I  live  to  be  pitied  P  "  she  asked  herself,  remembering 
that  she  had  sold  herself  to  the  bondage  of  a  loveless  marriage 
for  the  sake  of  being  envied. 

One  day  she  determined  upon  sending  for  Blanche,  in  order 
to  bring  some  new  force  to  bear  upon  Miss  Disney ;  but  upon 
the  next  day  altered  her  mind.  She  would  not  endure  that  her 
Bister — even  her  best-loved,  most-trusted  sister — should  see  that 
there  was  an  influence  in  her  husband's  house  stronger  than  her 
own. 

"  Blanche  woi;ld  go  on  so,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  I  feel  too 
weak  and  tired  to  bear  fuss  of  any  kind.  And  after  all  what 
dues  it  matter  if  my  husband  has  found  somebody  to  be  inte- 
rested in  his  racing  talk  ?  It  never  interested  me ;  only  I  be- 
lieve that  Hilda's  sympathy  is  all  put  on.  No  woman  could  be 
interested  in  handicapping  and  Chester  Cups  for  ever  and  ever. 

So  Lady  Paulyn  made  no  struggle  to  maintain  her  authority. 
She  allowed  Hilda  to  drive  her  pony-carriage,  and  make  friends 
with  the  few  families  scattered  in  pretty  white  villas  here  anc" . 
there  upon  the  coast.  She  left  to  Hilda  the  trouble  of  dispens- 
ing tea  and  coffee  at  the  eight-o'clock  breakfast ;  the  gentlemen 
were  early  at  Slogh-na-Dyack,  and  over  the  hills  and  far  away 
before  ten.  She  suffered  Hilda  to  receive  the  sportsmen  when 
they  came  straggling  up  from  the  boat,  with  the  dogs  at  their 
heels,  and  she  rarely  appeared  herself  in  the  public  rooms  of  the 
chateau  till  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  eight-o'clock  dinner. 
She  had  the  long  days  to  herself,  and  roamed  alone  where  she 
would,  making  her  companions  of  the  hills  and  the  blue  sea. 
Sometimes,  when  she  looked  from  the  hill-tops  towards  the 
Mull  of  Cantyre,  her  soul  yearned  to  escape  by  that  rock-bound 
point,  to  sail  away  to  the  South-Sea  isles,  and  toil,  for  God'a 
sake,  by  the  side  of  the  man  she  loved.  0,  how  easy,  hovf 
Bweet,  how  smooth  it  s^'^^ied  to  her  now,  that  better  life  whici 


280  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

she  had  cast  away  !     "  How  easy  it  would  have  been  for  me  to 

do  good  for  his  sake,"  she  said ;  "to  be  srhooled  by  him,  to  be- 
tome  anything  that  he  could  make  me — a  saint  almost — by  his 
pure  influence!" 

Then  from  that  distant  seaward  opening,  from  that  dream-like 
gaze  towards  an  unknown  world  far  away,  her  tired  eyes  would 
sink  downward  to  the  towers  and  pinnacles  of  Slogh-na-Dyack, 
like  a  fair/  palace  dimly  seen  through  the  misty  atmosphere. 
Was  it  not  verily  the  fairy  palace  of  her  dreams,  symbol  of  the 
Cinderella's  triumph  she  had  fancied  for  herself  in  her  childish 
visions? 

"I  wonder  whether  Cinderella  was  happy,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  or  if  she  ever  wished  herself  back  among  the  cinders,  and  hated 
her  fairy  godmother  for  having  made  her  a  i^rincess.  She  found 
rich  husbands  for  her  sisters  at  any  rate,  and  that  is  "more  than 
I  have  done.  I  have  been  no  use  in  the  world  to  any  one  but 
myself." 

On  quiet  Sundays,  and  the  Sabbath  at  Slogh-na-Dyack  was 
very  quiet,  the  sound  of  the  bells  ringing  through  the  soft 
summer  air  brought  back  the  thought  of  Hawleigh  and  the 
grave  old  church,  its  massive  clustered  columns  and  lofty  arches, 
shadowy  aisles  sonorous  with  the  fresh  young  voices  of  the  choir, 
and  sometimes  with  his  voice  alone,  reading  the  lessons  of  the 
day,  with  a  tender  earnestness  that  gave  familiar  words  a  new 
meaning.  Here  in  the  little  Episcopalian  chapel  the  sacred  rites 
were  sorely  stinted;  no  white-robed  choristers  trooping  in 
through  the  vestry-door,  no  decorated  altar-cloths  or  floral 
festivals,  but  the  same  dull  round  from  year's  end  to  year's  end ; 
a  harmonium  grumbling  an  accompaniment  of  common  chords 
to  the  dullest  selection  of  hymns  extant,  and  one  elderly  incum- 
bent prosing  his  feeble  Httle  sermons,  and  doing  his  best  to 
maintain  the  dignity  of  his  Church  single-handed. 

Elizabeth  and  Miss  Disney  were  regular  in  their  attendance 
at  this  small  temple,  which  was  an  unpretentious  edifice  of 
corrugated  iron,  like  a  gigantic  Dutch  oven,  until  at  last,  after 
about  half-a-dozen  Sundays,  Lady  Paulyn  wearied  of  the  elderly 
incumbent. 

"  There's  another  Episcopalian  chapel  at  Dunallen,"  she  said ; 
"areal  stone  pretty  little  gothic  building,  which  can  hardly  be 
so  intolerably  hot  as  this  oven.  I  shall  take  the  pony-carriage 
this  afternoon  and  go  over  there." 

She  did  not  invite  Miss  Disney  to  join  her  in  this  expedition  ; 
BO  that  young  lady,  who  made  a  point  of  holding  herself  aloof 
from  all  intercourse  to  which  she  was  not  specially  invited,  and 
who  had  certainly  received  no  inducement  to  abandon  this  re- 
serve, went  her  own  ways  to  the  little  iron  church  in  the  island, 
while  Lady  Paulyn  drove  to  Dunallen.     It  was  a  calm  sunless 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  281 

afternoon,  with  an  atmosj^liere  that  seems  made  on  purpose  for 
Sundays — a  day  on  which  the  birds  foi-get  to  sinjT,  and  the 
rabbits  lie  asleep  in  their  holes.  The  Kyles  of  Bute  looked  smooth 
as  an  Italian  lake,  but  there  was  no  Italian  sky  above  them, 
only  the  uniform  gray  of  Scottish  heavens,  unbroken  save  by 
the  white  mist-wreaths  on  the  hill-tops. 

The  Viscount  and  his  friends,  after  having  spent  all  the  law- 
ful days  of  the  week  in  perambulating  the  moors,  lunching  on 
the  mountain-top  upon  savoury  stews  cooked  in  a  travelling 
kitchener,  washed  down  with  Glenlivat,  were  not  sorry  for  the 
day  of  rest,  which  they  devoted  to  lying  full-length  on  the 
divans  in  the  smoking-room,  or  sauntering  in  the  garden  and 
hot-houses,  talking  Newmarket  and  Tattersall's.  Going  to 
church  was  not  among  their  accomplishments. 

Dunallen  was  a  hamlet  among  the  hills,  round  which  sundry 
white-stone  villas  had  scattered  themselves,  a  hamlet  on  a 
winding  hill-side  road  looking  downward  across  an  undulating 
tract  of  fertile  meadow  and  cornfield  to  the  blue  bosom  of  the 
loch.  Lady  Paulyn  had  marked  the  spot,  and  the  little  gothic 
Episcopalian  church,  lately  erected  at  the  cost  of  a  landowner 
in  the  neighbourhood,  in  the  course  of  her  lonely  rambles.  The 
village  was  within  thi-ee  miles  of  Slogh-na-Dyack,  and  one  of 
her  favourite  walks  was  in  the  moorland  above  it. 

The  bells  were  ringing  with  a  sweet  solemn  sound  in  the  still 
air,  as  the  little  carriage  drove  round  the  curve  of  the  hill,  and 
up  to  the  pretty  gothic  doorway  of  Dunallen  chapel.  The 
Presbyterian  church  stood  a  few  paces  off,  a  gaunt  edifice  of 
fifty  years  ago,  grim  and  uncompromising;  as  who  should  say. 
Here  you  will  get  only  plain  substantial  fare,  and  no  foreign 
kickshaws ;  something  to  bite  at,  in  the  way  of  theology.  Be- 
hind the  Episcopalian  chapel,  with  its  dainty,  dandified  air, 
there  rose  a  little  grove  of  firs  upon  the  green  slope  of  the  hill, 
crowning  the  gothic  pinnacles  with  their  dark  verdure,  and  in 
front  of  the  fir-grove,  a  few  yards  from  the  chapel,  stood  a  tiny 
manse,  a  miniature  Tudor  villa,  in  which  a  young  newly- wedded 
incumbent  might  have  found  life  very  picturesque  and  pleasant, 
but  in  which  there  would  have  hardly  been  breathing  room  tor 
a  pastor  with  a  large  family. 

Lady  Paulyn  was  one  of  the  first  to  enter  the  small  church, 
and  was  speedily  conducted  to  a  comfortable  seat  by  an  obse- 
quious pew-opener,  who  had  marked  the  arrival  of  the  carriage. 
The  light  within  was  softened  by  painted  windows  from  Munich; 
the  open  seats  were  of  dark  oak;  the  small  temjjle  had  the 
look  of  a  labour  of  love. 

The  service  was  conducted  in  the  usual  unomamental  style; 
a  Httle  stout  man  with  sandy  whiskers  read  prayers  at  a 
hand  gallop  to  a  sparse  congregation,  who  afterwards  joined 


2S2  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

tlieir  vinegar  voices  in  a  shrill  hymn,  not  one  of  those  Hymns 
Ancient  and  Modem,  -which  Elizabeth  loved  so  well,  but  a  dry- 
as-dust  composition,  which  would  never  have  given  wings  to 
any  heavenward-soaring  soul.  Elizabeth  thought  these  minis- 
trations but  a  small  improvement  on  the  services  of  the  corru- 
gated iron  chapel  at  Slogh-na-Dyack.  She  had  fallen  into  a 
drowsy  absent-minded  condition  by  the  time  the  shrill  singiiifj 
was  finished,  and  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  look  np  to  see  the 
little  stout  man  trot  up  the  I'ulpit-stairs. 

She  sat  looking  down  at  the  loosely-clasped  hands  in  her  lap, 
•when  another  voice,  without  any  preliminary  prayer,  gave  out 
the  text ;  and  lifting  her  eyes  with  a  wild  stare,  in  which  rap- 
ture and  surprise  were  strangely  blended,  saw  a  tall  figure  in  a 
surplice  in  the  place  where  the  httle  man  might  have  stood — the 
figure  of  Malcolm  Forde. 

No  cry  broke  from  her  lips,  though  her  heart  beat  as  it  had 
never  beaten  before.  She  sat  dumbly  looking  at  him,  white  as 
death,  with  fixed  dilated  eyes.  The  dead  newly  risen  from  the 
grave  could  not  have  moved  her  more  deeply.  Great  Heaven, 
how  she  loved  him!  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  in  that  moment 
only  she  realised  the  overwhelmiiig  force  of  her  love.  A  new 
world,  a  new  life,  were  contained  in  his  presence.  To  see  him 
there,  only  to  see  and  hear  him — whatsoever  gulf  yawned  be- 
tween them — was  new  life  to  her ;  renovated  youth,  hope,  joy, 
enthusiasm,  aspiration  for  higher  things. 

"  O  God,  if  1  can  only  hear  his  voice  every  Sunday,"  she 
thought,  "  I  will  worship  him,  and  live  for  him,  and  be 
good  and  pure  for  his  sake,  and  never  strive  to  lessen  the  dis- 
tance that  divides  us.  AVhat  more  joy  can  I  desire  than  to 
know  that  he  lives,  and  is  well  and  happy,  and  breathes  the 
same  air  I  breathe,  and  looks  out  across  the  same  sea,  and  is 
near  me  unawares.  0,  thank  God  for  the  chance  that  brought 
me  to  Slogh-na-Dyack !  Thank  God  for  my  bonnie  Scottish 
home!" 

His  sermon  to-day  was  like  his  old  sermons,  full  of  life  and 
fire  and  quiet  force  and  supreme  tenderness,  the  sermon  of  a 
man  speaking  to  a  cherished  flock  out  of  a  heart  overflowing 
with  love.  Yet  she  fancied  that  his  tones  had  lost  somethinif 
in  mere  physical  power;  that  deep-toned  voice  was  weaker  than 
of  old.  Once  he  stopped,  exhausted,  at  the  close  of  a  sentence 
with  an  appearance  of  fatigue  that  she  had  never  seen  in  hiiu 
at  Hawleigh,  and  his  face  looked  very  pale  in  the  cold  light 
from  a  northern  window. 

The  thought  of  this  change  touched  her  heart  with  a  sud- 
den sense  of  fear.  That  spii-itual  countenance  turned  to  the 
northern  light,  those  deep  hollow  eyes,  all  the  lines  of  the  face 
more  8harY)ly  chiselled  than  of  old,  something  that  was  not 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  283 

Bge,  but  rather  an  indication  of  hard  wear  and  tear  that  stood 
in  the  place  of  age^these  were  the  tokens  of  his  late  labours, 
the  seal  that  his  mission  had  set  upon  him. 

"  If  he  should  die,"  she  said  to  herself,  ajopalled;  "  whUe  I, 
who  seem  made  of  some  hard  common  clay,  too  tough  to  be 
broken  by  sorrow,  go  on  living." 

The  sermon  was  not  a  long  one.  There  was  no  hymn  after- 
wards, only  the  clink-clink  of  shillings  and  sixpences  into  the 
bowl,  which  a  grim-looking  Scotchman  carried  round  the  little 
church.  The  service  altogether  had  been  of  the  briefest;  and 
Donald  the  groom,  who  perhaps  took  his  measure  from  a  fami- 
liarity with  the  Presbyterian  office,  had  not  arrived  with  the 
pony-carriage  when  Lady  Paulyn  came  out  of  the  church. 

she  looked  round  her  with  something  like  terror  at  finding 
herself  standing  almost  alone  by  the  church-door,  knowing  that 
Malcolm  Forde  was  so  near;  might  come  through  that  open 
door  at  any  moment,  and  meet  her  face  to  face,  for  tlie  first  time 
since  he  had  cast  her  from  his  heart  with  cruel  deUberate  re* 
pudiation. 

She  thought  of  the  morning  on  which  she  had  gone  to  his 
lodgings  in  quest  of  him ;  gone  with  a  determination  to  humble 
herself,  to  ask  for  his  forgiveness  and  his  blessing  before  he  left 
her  for  ever.  And  behold,  that  bitter  jDarting,  that  loss  of 
something  which  had  seemed  to  her  the  very  life  of  her  life, 
had  not  been  for  ever.  The  world  which  seemed  so  wide  was 
narrow  enough  to  bring  these  two  face  to  face  again. 

"  If  I  had  seen  him  that  morning,  and  he  had  forgiven  me,  I 
should  never  have  married  Lord  Paulyn,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  If  he  had  left  me  only  a  few  words  of  kindness  or  forgive- 
ness, I  would  have  been  true  to  his  memory  all  my  life ;  but  his 
coldness  drove  me  mad.  I  had  no  memory  of  the  past  to  con- 
sole me;  I  had  no  hope  in  the  future  to  sustain  me." 

Still  no  sign  of  Donald  and  the  ponies.  The  scanty  congre- 
gation had  dispersed;  the  mountain  road  was  empty.  She 
stood  watching  the  curve  round  which  the  ponies  must  in  due 
tijne  appear,  half  dreading,  half  hoping  that  Malcolm  Forde 
might  come  that  way. 

She  had  been  waiting  about  ten  minutes  or  a  quaitter  of  an 
hour — a  period  Avhich  seemed  almost  interminable — when  she 
heard  the  shutting  of  a  distant  door,  and  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps approaching  her.  She  had  gone  a  little  way  along  the 
road,  in  the  opposite  direction  to  the  vicarage.  The  incumbent 
and  his  friend  would  be  likely  to  return  thither  when  the  ser- 
vice was  ended.  She  had  not  flung  herself  purposely  in  the 
path  of  her  old  lover. 

She  heard  the  footsteps  drawing  nearer,  and  the  voices  of  two 
men  converf4iig.     One,  the  thin  reedy  uipe  of  the  incumbent ; 


284  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

tlie  other  that  deep  graver  organ,  whose  every  tone  she  knew  so 
well. 

They  had  gone  a  little  way  past  her,  when  the  short  stout 
gentleman,  who  had  been  apprised  by  the  appearance  of  a  stray 
sovereign  in  the  alms-basin  that  some  important  member  of 
hi?  flock,  or  perchance  some  illustrious  stranger,  had  been 
among  the  congregation,  turned  himself  about  to  behold  her, 
pirouetting  in  an  airy  manner,  as  if  admiring  the  beauties  of 
the  landscape. 

"  Lady  Paulyn,  I  declare,"  he  murmured  to  his  companion, 
after  a  brief  survey 

His  companion  stared  at  him  for  a<  moment  with  a  look  of 
sheer  amazement,  and  stopped  short. 

"  What  Lady  Paulyn  ?  Do  you  mean  an  old  woman,  Lord 
Paulyn's  mother  ?  " 

••  No,  a  young  woman,  and  a  very  handsome  one.  The  Dow- 
ager Lady  Paulyn  died  a  few  months  ago." 

They  were  walking  on  again.  Malcolm  Fordehad  not  looked 
backward.  Was  it  verily  Elizabeth,  the  woman  he  had  loved, 
the  woman  whose  image  had  followed  him  in  his  farthest  wan- 
derings, the  shadowy  face  looking  into  his,  the  spirit  voice 
speaking  with  him,  in  spite  of  his  prayer  for  forgetfulness,  in 
spite  of  his  manhood  and  his  reason  ?  In  dreams,  walking  and 
eleeping,  she  had  been  with  him.  Thoughts  of  her  had  intruded 
themselves  ujjon  his  most  solemn  meditations ;  never,  even  at 
his  best,  had  he  been  free  from  those  olden  fetters,  the  fatal 
bondage  of  earthly  love. 

And  yet  he  had  passed  her  unawares,  upon  that  mountain 
road,  and  would  not  for  all  the  world  go  back  to  speak  to  her. 
A  few  yards  farther  on  they  met  the  pony-carringe,  the  small 
cream-coloured  ponies  with  bells  upon  their  harness,  the  little 
shell-shaped  carriage  with  its  bearskin  and  scarlet  rug. 

Mr.  Forde  smiled  his  bitterest  smile  at  the  sight  of  that 
dainty  equipage.  Was  it  not  for  pomps  and  vanities  such  as 
these  she  had  sold  herself? 

"  How  does  she  happen  to  be  hene  ?  "  he  asked  his  com- 
panion. 

"  You  know  her  !  **  exclaimed  Mr.  Mackenzie,  the  incumbent, 
turning  upon  him  sharply. 

"  Yes,  1  know  her." 

"  But  won't  you  speak  to  her  P  Let  us  go  back.  It  must 
seem  so  rude  to  have  passed  her  like  that.  And  you  can  intro- 
iluce  me.  I  should  really  have  liked  to  coll  on  her  wlien  she 
first  came  to  Slogh-ua-Dyack,  but  she  would  naturally  attend 
the  Episcopalian  church  down  thei'c,  I  thought,  and  I  hate  the 
idea  of  seeming  intrusive,  Let  us  go  back  and  speak  to  her 
before  she  drives  off." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  285 

"No,  Mackenzie.  My  acquaintance  with  her  began  and 
ended  a  long  time  ago.  I  will  not  renew  it.  You  must  get 
some  one  else  to  present  you,  or  call  upon  her  and  present  your- 
Belf." 

"  "Was  she  Lady  Paulyn  when  you  knew  her  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Quite  a  nobody,  I've  been  told,  before  her  marriage  P  "  in- 
quisitively. 

"  I  don't  know  your  exact  definition  of  a  nobody.  Her  father 
was  my  vicar — a  man  of  old  family ;  and  she  was  one  of  the 
loveliest  girls,  or  I  will  say  the  loveliest,  I  ever  saw." 

"  No  doubt — no  doubt ;  she's  a  splendid  woman  now.  But  it 
was  a  great  match  for  a  country  clergyman's  daughter.  I  wish 
iny  daughters  may  marry  half  as  well  when  they  grow  up. 
Their  complexions  at  present  have  a  tendency  to  run  to  freckles ; 
but  I  daresay  they'll  grow  out  of  that." 

The  pony-carriage  Hashed  rapidly  by  at  this  moment;  Eliza- 
beth driving,  and  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  left. 

*'  How  do  they  come  to  be  here  ?  "  asked  Malcolm. 

**  What,  didn't  I  tell  you  yesterday,  when  I  took  you  for  that 
long  round  ?  No,  by  the  bye,  we  did  not  go  near  Slogh-na- 
Dyack.  Lord  Paulyn  has  lately  bought  a  place  on  the  coast 
here ;  a  charming  place,  which  he  got  a  dead  bargain.  We'll  go 
over  and  call  to-morrow,  if  you  like." 

"  Haven't  I  told  you  that  I  don't  want  to  renew  my  acquain- 
tance with  Lady  Paulyn  ?  " 

"  That  sounds  so  ungracious  ;  your  old  vicar's  daughter  too. 
However,  I  suppose  you  have  your  own  reasons." 

"  I  have.  It's  best  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth,  perhaps ;  only 
mind  it  goes  no  farther,  not  even  to  Mrs.  Mackenzie.  Miss 
Luttrell  and  I  were  engaged  to  be  married,  and  she  flung  me 
over  for  Lord  Paulyn.  That's  the  whole  story.  It's  a  thing  of 
the  remote  past;  a  folly  on  both  sides,  no  doubt;  since  she  was 
created  by  nature  to  adorn  the  position  she  now  occupies,  and 
I  had  other  hopes  which  I  was  willing  to  abandon  for  her  sake. 
Do  not  think  that  I  cherish  any  ill-feeling  against  her;  only — 
only  it  might  pain  us  both  to  meet." 

Mr.  Mackenzie  held  his  peace  after  this,  and  the  tw9  men 
made  a  circuit  of  the  hill-side,  and  returned  to  the  manse  to 
dine  '>ji  a  cold  roast  of  beef,  as  Mrs.  Mackenzie  called  it,  and  a 
salatT,  in  clerical  fashion ;  content  to  consume  their  viands  cold 
on  the  day  of  rest.  But  Mr.  Mackenzie  had  a  budget  of  news 
for  his  wife  that  night  when  they  retired  to  their  *wn  chamber, 
and  dutifully  poured  into  her  listening  ear  the  etory  of  Malcolm 
Forde's  love-affair. 


286  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Quel  mortel  ne  sait  pas,  dans  le  sein  des  oragea, 
Oii  reposer  sa  tete,  a  Tabri  des  naufrages  ? 

Et  moi,  jouet  des  flots,  seul  avec  mes  douleurs, 
Aucun  navire  ami  ne  vient  frapper  ma  vue, 
Aucun,  sur  cette  mei*  oil  ma  barque  est  perdue, 
Ne  porte  mes  couleurs." 

TmiEE  months  before  the  Sunday  on  which  Elizabeth  went  to 
the  little  Episcopal  church  among  the  hills,  Malcolm  Forde  had 
come  home,  a  very  shadow  of  his  former  self,  to  renew  the 
strength  that  he  had  spent  in  the  fatiguing  service  of  his  mis- 
sion. Not  disheartened  or  disgusted  with  his  work  did  he 
journey  homeward,  only  intent  upon  returning  to  that  beloved 
labour  in  a  little  while,  with  a  frame  made  vigorous  by  the  cool 
breezes  o  ihis  native  land,  and  mental  powers  that  shonld  have 
gained  new  force  from  a  brief  season  of  rest.  Infinitely  had 
God  blest  his  endeavours  in  that  distant  world,  and  infinite  were 
his  hopes  of  future  achievement.  He  had  not  mistaken  his 
mission  upon  this  earth  ;  tlie  work  prospered  under  his  hand. 
He  was  of  that  stamp  of  men  who  are  by  nature  formed  to  be 
leaders  of  their  fellow-men  ;  created  to  convince,  to  subjugate, 
to  rule  the  weaker  clay  which  makes  the  mass  of  humanity. 

He  came  home  to  Scotland  in  no  manner  depressed,  though 
ho  felt  that  his  health  was  shaken ;  that  he  had  laboured  just  a 
little  longer  than  prudential  considerations  would  have  war- 
ranted ;  not  cast  down,  although  he  fancied  sometimes,  as  the 
good  ship  sailed  homewards,  that  he  should  never  again  cross 
those  blue  waters,  never  finish  the  work  so  well  begun. 

"  If  not  I,  some  other  one,"  he  said  to  himself,  in  tranquil 
resignation.  "  I  cannot  believe  that  labourers  will  be  wanted 
for  so  fair  a  vineyard.  Let  me  be  content  if  I  have  been 
suffered  to  see  the  beginning  of  that  glorious  end  ivhich  I  know 
must  come  in  God's  good  time,  before  that  wonderful  day  when 
the  dead  shall  arise  from  their  graves,  and  Ahce  Fraser  and 
1  shall  see  each  ether  again." 

He  thought  of  his  first  love,  whose  bridal  robe  had  been  her 
winding-sheet,  whose  undefiled  image  rose  before  him,  pure  and 
Btainless  as  an  angel's;  and  then,  with  unspeakable  bitterness, 
he  thought  of  that  other  love,  so  much  more  fatally  beloved, 
who  had  stained  her  soul  with  the  deep  shame  of  a  loveluss 
marriaf^e;  who  had  bartered  purity  and  truth  and  honour,  her 
life's  liberty,  her  soul's  independence,  for  the  pomps  and 
vanities  of  tK's  world. 


Strangers  cmd  Pilgrims.  287 

He  went  back  to  Lenorgie.  Those  he  had  best  loved  were 
sleeping  their  quiet  sleep  in  the  old  churchyard  among  the 
hills ;  but  there  were  old  friends  still  left  to  give  him  cordial 
welcome,  and  he  spent  the  drowsy  summer  time  pleasantly 
r-nough  in  the  restful  calm  of  his  native  place.  His  small  estate 
^as  let  to  strangers,  even  the  house  in  which  he  was  born ;  but 
he  found  a  comfortable  lodging  in  one  of  the  farmhouses  on  his 
own  land.  He  had  just  sufficient  society  to  make  life  agreeable, 
and  ample  leisure  for  making  himself  acquainted  with  the 
better  part  of  that  mass  of  literature  which  had  been  produced 
during  his  absence ;  literature  whereof  very  little  had  reached 
him  on  the  other  side  of  the  Pacific. 

In  this  manner  he  spent  a  couple  of  months ;  then  finding 
his  health  in  some  manner  restored,  started  on  a  walking  tour 
from  Loch  Eannoch  to  Loch  Lomond,  resting  wherever  the 
fancy  seized  him;  sometimes  spending  half  a  week  at  some 
quiet  out-of-the-way  inn,  where  the  herd  of  summer  tourists 
came  not;  fishing  a  little,  readinof  and  thinkinsr  a  great  deal, 

.     Ill  ^  OO  ' 

with  hope  that  grew  stronger  as  his  physical  strength  revived  : 
taking  the  business  of  pedestrianism  altogether  quietly,  and 
varying  his  work  according  to  the  humour  of  the  hour.  Thus, 
after  the  best  part  of  a  month  spent  upon  ground  which  the 
British  tourist  scours  in  a  couple  of  days,  he  came  to  Dunallen, 
where  he  had  an  old  High-School  and  college  comrade  of  days 
gone  by,  in  the  person  of  the  Kev.  Peter  Mackenzie,  whose  duty 
he  had  promised  to  take  upon  his  own  hands  for  a  couple  of 
months,  while  Mr.  Mackenzie  and  his  family  enjoyed  a  holiday 
in  Belgium. 

For  the  first  week  of  Mr.  Forde's  residence  the  Eev.  Peter 
was  to  remain  at  Dunallen,  in  order  to  introduce  his  friend  to 
his  new  duties,  and  make  him  feel  at  home  in  the  snug  little 
gothic  mause  on  the  hill-side,  which  was  a  great  deal  too  small 
for  the  Mackenzie  olive-branches,  but  was  so  arranged,  with 
infinite  management  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Mackenzie,  as  to 
contain  a  permanent  spare  bedroom.  The  juvenile  Mackenziea 
inhabited  certain  dovecot-like  chambers  in  the  gables,  which 
might  have  been  rather  large  for  a  pigeon,  but  were  a  good  deal 
too  small  for  a  child,  except  upon  the  principle  that  nature  will 
adapt  itself  to  anything  in  the  way  of  surroundings.  The  little 
Mackenzics  might  have  can-ied  their  bedrooms  on  their  back 
like  snails  without  being  very  heavily  burdened;  but  they 
thrived  and  flourished  notwithstanding,  and  whooped  and  gam- 
bolled like  young  scions  of  the  Macgregor  family  in  that  clear 
■mountain  air.  In  this  hospitable  abode,  where  he  was  almost 
tilled,  as  Juliet  proposed  to  slay  Romeo,  with  much  cherishing, 
Mr.  Forde  intended  to  repose  himself  for  seven  or  eight  weeks, 
counting  the  light  duties  of  this  small  parish  as  the  next  thiner 


288  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

to  idleness,  before  returning  to  his  labours  at  the  other  end  ot 
the  world.  He  hoped  to  start  in  November,  and  thus  escape 
the  severities  of  a  British  winter,  which  he  felt  himself  ill 
prepared  to  face. 

It  did  indeed  seem  to  Elizabeth,  as  she  drove  homeward  at  a 
recljess  pace  that  Sunday  afternoon,  as  if  life  and  the  world 
were  new  again,  as  if  a  new  force  had  set  the  warm  blood  racing 
through  her  veins,  as  if  the  very  air  she  breathed  had  a  magical 

Sower,  and  the  landscape  she  looked  upon  was  glorious  in  the 
ght  of  a  new  sun.  It  was  only  a  little  burst  of  afternoon 
Bunlight,  a  sudden  break  in  the  dull  gray  sky  that  beautified  the 
hills,  but  to  her  it  seemed  no  common  radiance  in  the  skies,  no 
common  loveUness  in  the  landscape. 

"  I  would  be  content  to  live  on  just  like  this  for  ever,"  she 
thought,  "  if  I  could  hear  him  preach  every  Sunday." 

Lord  Paulyn  was  enjoying  the  tardy  sunshine  before  the 
Gothic  porch  of  Slogh-na-Dyack  as  his  wife  drove  her  ponies  uj? 
to  the  chief  door  of  the  cahteau.  He  was  smoking  a  meditative 
cigar,  but  not  in  solitude.  His  friend  Mr.  Lampton,  a  turf  mag- 
nate, who  had  exchanged  speculation  in  Manchester  soft  goods 
for  the  more  hazardous  operations  of  tlie  turf,  was  lounging  on 
an  adjacent  rustic  bench,  and  his  toady-in-cliief,  Mr.  Ferdinand 
Spink,  a  gentleman  who  combined  a  taste  for  literature  witli  a 
genius  for  billiards,  supported  himself  against  an  angle  of  the 
porch,  in  a  state  of  supreme  exhaustion ;  while  seated  in  a 
Glastonbury  chair  within  the  shelter  of  the  porch  appeared  the 
graceful  figure  of  Hilda  Disney.  It  was  altogether  a  pi-etty 
domestic  picture — the  Viscount  planted  on  the  threshold  of  his 
mansion,  his  cousin  close  at  hand,  his  friend  and  flatterer  on 
either  side,  like  the  supporters  in  the  family  arms. 

"  And  how  little  I  am  wanted  here  ! "  thought  Elizabeth,  with 
the  old  feeling  of  dislike  and  suspicion  about  Hilda. 

"  Been  to  church  ?  "  asked  Lord  Paulyn  coolly. 

"Yes." 

•'  Been  doing  goody-goody  for  the  lot  of  us.  I'm  glad  you 
Btick  to  that  sort  of  thing.  It's  ballast  for  the  rest  of  the 
family." 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  afternoon  church,"  said  Ehza- 
beth,  turning  to  Hilda,  with  a  faint  suspicion  in  her  look. 

"  She  changed  her  mind,  and  stayed  at  home  to  talk  some- 
thing over  with  me,"  answered  the  Viscount.  "  She's  worth 
half-a-dozen  stewards.  I  go  to  Hilda  when  I  want  a  wrinkle 
about  the  managemeat  of  my  estate.  She  didn't  live  the  best 
part  of  her  life  with  such  a  jolly  old  screw  as  my  mother  fur 
nothing,  I  can  tell  you." 

Hilda  made  no  acknowledgment  of  this  dubious  compliment. 


Strangers  and  JPilgrims.  289 

**  Did  you  like  the  churcli  at  Dunallen?"  she  asked. 

"  It  is  much  better  than  that  cast-iron  oven." 

Elizabeth's  face  flamed  crimson  for  a  moment  as  she  spoke, 
the  old  transient  flush  like  the  reflection  of  evening  sunlight. 
Miss  Disney  marked  the  vivid  colour,  and  wondered  what  there 
could  be  in  a  strange  church  to  call  for  blushes. 

"  You  had  a  good  sermon,  I  hope,  as  a  reward  for  your  six 
miles'  drive  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Elizabeth  curtly. 

She  went  into  the  house,  passing  her  husband  without  so 
much  as  a  look. 

He  had  Hilda — Hilda's  counsel ;  Hilda,  trained  in  that  sordid 
school  at  Ashcombe ;  Hilda,  whose  genius  was  to  suggest  thft 
saving  of  money.  Her  bosom  swelled  with  anger  and  contempt 
— anger  against  both,  contempt  for  both. 

"  Why  did  he  not  marry  his  cousin,  and  leave  me  to  my  lonely 
life,  leave  me  to  be  true  to  the  memory  of  Malcolm  Forde  ?  " 

She  went  up  to  her  own  room,  the  room  with  the  stone  balcony 
looking  over  the  water,  the  soft  blue-gray  wavelets  which  flowed 
beneath  the  hills  that  hid  Dunallen.  How  strange,  how  sweet, 
how  sad  to  know  he  was  so  near  her — he  from  whom  she  was 
parted  for  ever ! 

"  If  I  had  been  constant  to  him,  if  I  had  been  content  to  live 
my  blank  miserable  life  in  that  wretched  little  house  at  Haw- 
leigh,  to  be  dragooned  by  Gertrude,  to  creep  on  my  dull  way 
like  a  snail  that  has  never  been  outside  the  walls  of  some  dismal 
old  kitchen-garden, — if  I  had  spent  all  these  years  in  thinking 
about  him  and  grieving  for  the  loss  of  his  love,  would  Heaven 
have  rewarded  my  patience,  and  brought  him  back  to  me  at  last  ? 
Could  I  by  only  a  little  self-denial,  only  a  few  years'  patience, 
have  been  so  blessed  at  last  ?  No ;  I  will  not  believe  it.  To 
think  that  would  drive  me  mad." 

She  sat  in  the  balcony,  looking  down  at  the  water  dreamily, 
with  folded  arms  resting  on  the  broad  stone  balustrade,  sat  living 
old  days  over  again  in  a  mournful  reverie  that  was  not  altogether 
bitter — nay  rather  perilously  sweet,  for  it  brought  back  the  past 
and  the  feelings  that  belonged  to  the  past  with  a  strange  reality. 
Memory  opened  the  gates  of  a  paradise,  like  that  Swedenborgian 
heaven  in  which  all  fairest  earthly  things  have  their  shadow 
types.  And  from  the  things  that  had  been,  her  thoughts  wan- 
dered to  the  things  that  might  have  been — the  life  she  might 
have  lived,  had  she  been  true  to  Malcolm  Forde. 

"  He  would  have  made  me  a  good  woman,"  she  thought ;  "  and 
what  have  I  been  without  him  ?  " 

Her  newly-awakened  conscience  reviewed  her  past  hfe,  a 
career  of  frivolity  and  selfishness  unleavened  by  one  charitable 
thought  or  noble  act.      She  had  Uved  for  herself  and  to  please 


290  Strangers  and  Filgrims. 

herself,  and  Heaven,  as  if  in  anger,  had  snatched  from  her  the 
chosen  delight  of  her  selfish  soul — the  child  whose  influence 
might  have  redeemed  her  useless  life,  drawn  her  world-stained 
Boul  heavenward. 

Dark  was  the  picture  of  her  life  to  look  back  upon;  darker 
BtiU  her  vision  of  the  future  r  growing  estrangement  between 
her  husband  and  herself — her  power  lessening  daily  as  her 
beauty  decayed ;  sinister  influences  at  work  to  divide  them,  and 
on  her  own  part  an  apathy  and  disgust  which  made  her  shrink 
from  any  attempt  to  retain  her  hold  upon  his  affection. 

The  booming  of  the  great  gong  in  the  hall  below  reminded 
her  of  the  common  business  of  life,  but  hardly  awakened  her 
from  her  day-dream.  She  hurried  to  her  dressing-room,  and  suf- 
fered herself  to  be  arrayed  for  the  evening,  and  went  down  to 
the  drawing-room,  where  the  Viscount  and  his  friends  were  dis- 
persed upon  the  ottomans  in  all  manner  of  attitudes  exjDressive 
of  extreme  prostration,  feebly  pretending  to  read  newspapers,  or 
look  at  the  pictures  in  magazines,  while  they  sustained  muttered 
discussions  about  the  odds  against  this  horse,  or  the  chances  in 
favour  of  that.  They  made  a  little  pretence  of  picking  them- 
selves up,  and  drawing  themselves  together,  at  the  entrance  of 
Lady  Paulyn.  Mr.  Spink,  the  literary  gentleman,  said  some- 
thing funny,  in  the  Saittr<iay-Beuiet<;-and- water  style,  about 
Scotch  Sabbaths,  but,  not  receiving  the  faintest  encourage- 
ment, returned  to  the  study  of  JielVs  Life  in  a  state  of 
collapse. 

"  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  her  ladyship  this  even- 
ing," he  said  afterwards  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  "but  she  looks 
as  if  she  were  walking  in  lier  sleep." 

Never  was  sleep-walker  less  conscious  of  her  surroundings 
than  Elizabeth  that  night.  She  performed  the  duties  of  her 
position  mechanically ;  made  very  fair  answers  to  the  inanities 
■which  were  addressed  to  her  ;  smiled  a  faint  cold  smile  now  and 
then  ;  turned  the  leaves  of  the  book  she  pretended  to  read  alter 
dinner  ;  caressed  the  privileged  hound,  who  stretched  his  long 
limbs  beside  her  chair  and  laid  his  head  among  the  silken  fold's 
of  her  dress,  her  favourite  companion  at  times,  and  fondly 
devoted  to  her  always. 

If  the  strangeness  of  her  manner  were  evident  to  the  careless 
eyes  of  Mr.  Spink — a  gentleman  who  considered  the  universe  a 
clever  contrivance  designed  as  a  setting  for  that  jewel  Spink — it 
was  much  more  obvious  to  the  eyes  of  Hilda  Disney,  eyes  that 
were  sharpened  by  a  jealousy  which  had  never  slept  since  the 
day  when  Reginald  Paulyn  first  betrayed  his  admu-ation  for  the 
Yicar's  daughter. 

What  could  have  happened  within  the  last  few  hours  to  bring 
about  so  marked  a  change  P     That  pale  set  face,  those  dreary 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  291 

awe-stricken  eyes,  as  of  one  who  had  held  converse  with  the 
very  dead — what  could  these  denote  P 

It  was  not  an  edifying  Sunday  evening  by  any  means.  The 
Scottish  underhngs  of  the  household  shivered  as  the  cUck  of  the 
billiard-balls  made  itself  heard  in  the  servants'  hall  an  hour  or 
two  after  dinner — but  how  could  the  Viscount  and  his  friends 
have  lived  through  the  day  without  billiards  ? 

Elizabeth  looked  up  from  her  book  after  a  long  reverie,  to  find 
herself  alone  with  Hilda  in  the  great  empty  drawing-room ;  only 
they  two,  sitting  ever  so  far  apart,  like  shipwrecked  mariners  who 
had  been  cast  ashore  on  some  desert  island,  and  who  were  not 
on  speaking  terms. 

"  I  hope  there  is  nothing  the  matter,  Lady  Paulyn  ?  "  said 
Hilda ;  "  you  are  looking  so  ^^nhke  yourself  to-night." 

Elizabeth  stared  at  her  for  a  moment  doubtfully,  with  that 
almost  vacant  look  which  had  startled  Mr.  Spink. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter — only — only  that  I  am  tired  of 
this  i)lace ! " 

"Already?  Why,  we've  been  here  only  a  few  weeks,  and 
Reginald  likes  the  life  so  much." 

"  That  does  not  oblige  me  to  hve  here.  The  place  would  kill 
me.  I  can't  endure  the  solitude.  It  makes  me  think  too  much. 
I  should  go  mad  if  I  stayed  here." 

This  from  her,  who  a  few  hours  ago  had  thanked  God  for  her 
Scottish  home,  had  deemed  it  joy  and  jDcace  unspeakable  to 
breathe  the  air  that  was  breathed  by  Malcolm  Forde,  to  live  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  every  week  cradled  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  him  for  a  little  while  on  Sunday  !  Yes,  she  had  thought 
all  this,  but  conscience  had  awakened  with  much  thinking,  and 
phe  began  to  feel  that  even  in  this  delight,  which  involved  no 
hope  of  meeting  him  face  to  face,  of  being  forgiven,  of  hearing 
him  speak  her  name  with  something  of  the  old  tenderness — even 
in  this  there  was  sin.  Danger,  in  the  common  sense  of  the 
word,  there  could  be  none,  for  was  not  Malcolm  Forde  as  a  rock, 
against  whose  calm  breast  the  waves  of  passion  beat  in  vain  ? 
But  she  knew  thei'e  was  peril  to  her  soul  in  this  vicinity ;  she 
knew  it  by  the  passionate  yearning  that  filled  her  heart  as  she 
sat  by  this  joyless  hearth  and  thought  of  the  life  that  might 
have  been  had  she  held  by  her  treasure  when  it  was  hers  to  hold, 
if  she  had  not,  at  least  for  a  little  while,  loved  earthly  pomps 
and  vanities  better  than  Malcolm  Forde. 

"  I  can  quite  imagine  that  the  exertion  of  thinking  must  be  a 
new  sensation  after  your  life  in  Park-lane,"  said  Miss  Disney, 
with  her  icy  sneer ;  "  but  wouldn't  it  be  as  well  to  encourage  the 
habit  ?  The  world  will  hardly  be  big  enough  for  you  if  you 
always  run  away  from  thought.  And  as  you  grow  older  you 
would  find  tlie  exercise  useful  as  a  way  of  getting  rid  of  winter 


292  Strangers  and  Filgrimg. 

evenings.  You  remember  what  Talleyrand  said  to  the  young 
man  who  couldn't  play  whist  ?  "  What  a  melancholy  old  age 
you  are  preparing  for  yourpolf ! " 

Elizabeth  did  not  trouble  herself  to  dispute  the  justice  of 
these  observations.  She  started  up  from  her  seat,  went  over  to 
one  of  the  windows,  and  flung  it  open  with  a  sharp  decisive 
action  that  indicated  a  mind  overwrought.  Innumerable  stars 
were  shining  in  the  deep  dark  sky ;  stars  that  shone  upon  him 
too,  she  thought,  as  she  looked  up  at  them,  with  that  old,  old 
thought  which  has  thrilled  the  soul  of  every  man  and  woman 
who  ever  lived,  at  least  once  in  a  lifetime.  "  Did  he  recognise 
me  to-day  as  I  drove  past  himp  does  he  know  that  I  am  near? 
Does  he  think  of  me,  and  pity  me,  and  regret  the  fooUshness  that 
parted  us  ?    0,  no ;  to  regret  would  be  sin,  and  he  never  sins." 

Lord  Paulyn  came  into  the  room  while  his  wife  was  standing 
at  the  open  window,  listening  idly  to  the  slow  ripple  of  the 
waves,  looking  idly  at  the  glory  of  the  stars,  lost  in  thought; 
quite  unconscious  of  anything  that  happened  in  the  room  behind 
her. 

He  came  in  alone,  languidly  yawning.  Miss  Disney  beckoned 
him  over  to  her,  with  a  somewhat  mysterious  air. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Hilda?  How  confoundedly  solemn  you 
look ! "  , 

"  I  am  afraid  Lady  Paiilyn  is  not  well." 

"  Bosh !  She  was  well  enough  at  dinner.  She's  been  giving 
herself  airs,  I  suppose.  Let  her  alone,  as  I  do,  and  she'll  come 
round  fast  enough." 

"  Ko,  no,  it's  not  that.  Bat  I  really  think  there  is  something 
strange  about  her.  Did  you  not  notice  something  in  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  at  dinner  ?  " 

"  I  have  left  off  watching  her  looks.  I  know  she's  a  remark- 
ably handsome  woman,  and  she  knows  it;  and  has  given  herself 
no  end  of  airs  on  the  strength  of  her  good  looks.  But  there  are 
limits  to  a  man's  patience,  and  my  stock  of  that  commodity  ia 
very  neai-ly  exhausted." 

"  Do  you  remember  what  you  told  me  about  her  illness, 
after  the  death  of  your  son?" 

The  Viscount  started,  frowned,  and  looked  at  his  cousin  with 
cuppressed  anger. 

"  Do  you  remember  telling  me  that  there  was  a  time  when  the 
doctors  feared  that  her  mind  would  never  recover  from  that 
shock?" 

"  I  told  you  what  the  doctors  said ;  but  the  doctors  are  hum- 
bugs. They  had  a  good  case,  and  wanted  to  make  the  most  of 
it.  I  never  thought  anything  of  the  kind  myself.  But  why 
the do  you  bring  this  up  to-night  ?" 


Strangers  and  TUgrima.  293 

**  Don't  be  angry.  I  am  only  anxious  for  yonr  sake  as  well 
as  hers.  There  is  something  very  strange  in  her  manner  to- 
night. Of  course  it  may  mean  nothing,  only  it  is  my  duty  to 
warn  you." 

"  O,  hang  duty  !"  cried  Lord  Paulyn  impatiently.  "  I  never 
knew  duty  urge  any  one  to  do  anything  pleasant.  The 
moment  any  one  mentions  duty,  I  know  that  I'm  in  for  it." 

He  turned  iipon  his  heel,  paced  the  room  two  or  thi-ee  times 
in  an  angry  mood,  and  then  went  out  to  the  balcony,  where  his 
wife  was  standing. 

"What  are  you  doing  out  here  star-gazing  .P  "  he  asked. 

The  reply  came  in  a  softer  tone  than  he  was  accustomed  to 
hear  from  Elizabeth's  lips. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  this  evening,  Reginald 
and  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  favour.  Please  don't  call  m' 
capricious^  or  be  angry  with  me  for  asking  it ;  and  if  you  car 
possibly  grant  it,  pray  do." 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  want?"  he  asked  ungraciously ; 
*"  more  money,  I  suppose.  Tou  didn't  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it  the  other  day  when  you  gave  me  your  bills — though  they 
were  heavy  enough,  in  conscience'  name." 

"  It  isn't  anything  about  money.  I  want  you  to  take  me 
away  from  this  place.  I  know  it  is  very  beautiful.  I  thought 
at  first  I  should  never  be  tired  of  the  mountains  and  the  loch, 
and  the  sea  that  lies  beyond;  but  the  solitude  is  killing  me. 
Do  let  us  go  away,  Reginald,  anywhere.  I  should  be  happier 
anywhere  than  here." 

"I  thought  as  much,"  cried  Lord  Paulyn,  with  a  hard  laugh. 
"I  thought  there  was  some  plot  hatching  between  you  and 
Hilda.  You'd  both  like  to  spread  your  wings,  I  daresay.  You'd 
like  to  go  to  Paris,  or  Baden-Baden,  or  Hombourg,  or  Brighton. 
Some  nice  crowded  place,  where  you  could  spend  money  like 
water.  No,  my  dear  Elizabeth,  when  I  brought  you  here,  I 
brought  you  here  to  stay.  I  know  Slogh-na-Dyack  isn't  lively, 
but  it's  healthy,  as  the  doctors  all  acknowledge,  and  for  the 
time  being  it  suits  me  very  well  indeed.  I  came  here  to  diminish 
my  expenses,  and  I  mean  to  stick  here  till  I've  filled  the  hole 
you  dug  in  my  bank  balance  by  your  extravagance  last  season." 

"  What !  "  cried  Elizabeth,  with  inefiable  disdain.  "  You  are 
here  for  the  sake  of  hoarding  your  money !  You  bring  me  to 
this  oiit-of-the-way  place  in  order  that  I  may  cost  you  less ! 
Why  don't  j'ou  send  me  away  altogether?  You  could  save 
more  money  that  way.     I  could  live  upon  a  hundred  a  year." 

"  Then  I  am  sorry  you  have  never  tried  the  experiment  since 
you  have  been  my  wife." 

"  Give  me  back  my  hberty.  Let  me  go  and  live  somewhere 
abroad — under  a  feigned  name — alone,  my  own  mistress,  free  to 


294  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

think  my  own  thouglits,  away  from  this  wretched  artificial  life, 
which  at  its  best  seems  to  me  like  acting  a  part  in  a  stage  play. 
Let  me  do  that,  and  I  will  not  ask  you  for  a  farthing.  I  will  live 
on  the  pittance  that  belongs  to  me." 

"  A  very  safe  offer — even  if  you  meant  it,  which  you  don't," 
answered  Lord  Paulyn  coolly.  "  No,  I  married  you  because  I 
was  fool  enough  to  be  fond  of  you,  and  I'm  fool  enough  to  be 
fond  of  you  still.  But  there  comes  an  end  to  the  period  in 
which  a  man  rather  enjoys  being  twisted  round  his  wife's  little 
finger,  I've  been  pliable  enough.  I've  let  you  have  your  full 
swing.  I  half  suspected  when  you  refused  to  have  anything 
settled  upon  you  that  you  meant  to  spend  my  money  all  the 
more  freely,  that  you  didn't  want  to  be  limited  to  a  few  hundreds, 
but  meant  to  make  ducks  and  drakes  of  thousands.  I  think 
I've  borne  with  your  extragavance  pretty  well.  From  this  time 
forward,  however,  I  mean  to  pull  up,  and  nurse  my  income,  as  my 
mother  nursed  the  Ash  combe  estates  for  me.  The  three  years 
of  my  married  life  have  cost  me  about  six  times  as  much  as  the 
same  amount  of  time  in  my  bachelor  life;  and  yet  I  didn't 
Btint  myself  of  any  reasonable  indulgence,  I  can  assure  you." 

"What  if  I  had  some  special  reason  for  asking  you  to  take 
me  away  from  this  place?"  pleaded  Elizabeth,  without  noticing 
her  lord's  harangue. 

"  A  woman  always  has  a  special  reason  for  wanting  her  own 
way,"  answered  Lord  Paulyn,  with  a  sneering  laugh. 

"  So  be  it,"  she  said,  raising  her  drooping  head  and  looking  at 
him  with  flashing  eyes.  "  I  will  stay  here,  then.  But  remember 
always  that  I  begged  you  to  take  me  away,  and  that  you  refused 
me  that  favour.  I  will  stay  here,  since  you  insist  upon  it,  and 
be  happy  in  my  own  way." 

"  Be  happy  any  way  you  please,  so  long  as  you  don't  worry 
me  with  this  kind  of  thing.  Come,  now,  Lizzie,  be  reasonable, 
you  know.  Let  us  retrench  this  year,  and  I'll  give  you  a  month 
or  two  in  Park-lane  in  the  spring.  Of  course  I'm  proud  of  you, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  I  like  to  show  you  off.  Only 
you've  contrived  to  make  it  so  confoundedly  expensive." 

"  What  other  happiness  do  you  suppose  I  expected  when  I 
married  you,  except  the  pleasure  of  spending  money?"  she  re- 
torted, in  her  coldest,  hardest  tone. 

"Upon  my  soul,  you're  too  bad,"  he  cried  angrily.  "You're 
not  the  first  woman  that  has  married  for  money,  by  a  long  way, 
but  I  should  think  you're  about  the  first  that  would  look  a  man 
in  the  face  and  tell  him  as  much  without  blushing." 

And  with  this  reproach  he  left  her,  to  go  back  to  his  frienda 
and  smoke  a  moody  cigar  in  their  congenial  society. 


Strangers  and  JPilgrmg.  296 


CHAPTER  VII. 

'•  Henceforth  I  fly  not  death,  nor  would  prolong 
Life  much,  bent  rather  how  I  may  be  quit 
Fairest  and  easiest  of  this  cumbrous  charge, 
Which  I  must  keep  till  my  appointed  day 
Of  rendering  up,  and  patiently  attend 
My  dissolution." 

A  STUANGE  unrest  came  Tipon  Elizabeth  after  that  Sunday 
evening,  a  slow  consuming  fever  of  the  mind,  which  in  due 
course  had  its  effect  upon  the  body.  The  knowledge  of  Malcolm 
Forde's  vicinity  quickened  the  beating  of  her  heart  by  day  and 
jiight.  Her  sleep  was  broken  by  troubled  dreams  of  their  meet- 
ing; her  days  were  made  anxious  by  the  perpetual  question, 
How  soon  would  accident  bring  them  face  to  face  ?  Or  would 
he  come  of  his  own  accord  to  see  her  ?  deeming  the  past  burieci 
deeper  than  the  uttermost  deep  of  a  fine  lady's  memory ;  com* 
to  visit  her  in  his  sacred  ofiice  of  priest ;  come  to  solicit  help 
for  his  poor,  support  for  this  or  that  benevolent  object ;  come 
to  make  a  ceremonious  professional  call  upon  the  lady  of  Slogh- 
na-Dyack. 

The  days  went  by  and  he  did  not  come,  and  she  told  herself 
that  she  was  glad.  Yet  she  kept  count  of  all  visitors  with  a 
strange  watchfulness,  and  was  fluttered  by  every  sound  of  the 
bell  at  the  chief  doorway.  In  her  walks  and  drives  the  same 
fatal  thought  pursued  her.  At  every  shadow  that  fell  suddenly 
upon  her  pathway,  at  every  approaching  footstep,  she  would 
look  up,  trembling  lest  she  should  see  his  tall  figure  between 
her  and  the  sunlight.  Was  it  a  hope  that  buoyed  her  up  from 
day  to  day,  or  a  fear  that  troubled  her  ?  She  scarcely  dared  to 
ask  herself  that  question. 

Sometimes  she  stayed  indoors  all  day,  seized  with  a  con- 
viction or  a  presentiment  that  he  would  come  upon  that  parti- 
cular day.  He  would  call  upon  her,  and  speak  gently  of  that 
poor  dead  past,  and  assure  her  of  his  forgiveness,  and  give  her 
good  counsel  for  the  guidance  of  her  life,  and  teach  her  how 
wisely  to  tread  the  dangerous  path  she  had  chosen.  But  that 
day  dragged  itself  slowly  out  like  all  the  rest,  and  he  did  not 
come. 

So  passed  a  week.  On  Sunday  she  ordered  her  pony-carriage, 
and  went  to  Dunallen,  dreading  that  Miss  Disney  might  offer 
to  accompany  her.  But  the  discreet  damsel  forbore  from  any 
such  intrusion.     She  had  made  her  inquiries  during  il^e  week, 


296  Birangerg  and  Pilgrims. 

B.nd  knew  perfectly  who  was  officiating,  in  the  absence  of  the 
incumbent,  at  Dunallen  Church. 

"  Your  preacher  at  Dunallen  must  be  much  better  than  onrs 
here,"  she  said,  standing  in  the  porch  as  Elizabeth  passed  by  to 
her  pony-carriage,  "  to  tempt  you  to  violate  the  Scottish  Sabbath 
on  two  consecutive  Sundays." 

'"  I  do  not  think  it  any  more  wicked  to  drive  on  a  Sunday  in 
Scotland  than  in  Devonshire,"  answered  Elizabeth. 

"  Nor  I.  I  was  only  thinldng  of  the  custom  of  the  country. 
I  know  at  Ashcombe  we  had  a  strong  inducement  to  make  a 
long  journey  to  hear  your  father's  curate — that  Mr.  Forde,  who 
preached  such  splendid  sermons,  and  seemed  always  so  terribly 
in  earnest  He  went  to  some  outlandish  place  as  a  missionary, 
did  he  not  P" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  a  pity !  "       , 

"  You  need  not  bewail  the  fact.  He  has  returned,  and  is  in 
Scotland.  I  am  going  to  hear  him  preach  to-day.  You  can 
come  with  me  if  you  like,  answered  Elizabeth,  with  a  splendid 
look  of  defiance,  as  much  as  to  say.  Whatever  sins  may  stain 
my  soul,  they  shall  not  be  the  paltry  sins  of  deceit  and  suppres- 
sion. 

"No,  thanks.  I  will  come  some  other  Sunday,"  said  Miss 
Disney,  curiously  discomfited  by  this  unexpected  candour.  She 
had  taken  so  much  trouble,  in  a  secret  way,  to  ascertain  the 
fact  which  Elizabeth  declared  so  recklessly ;  not  carelessly  or 
indifferently  — for  her  eyes  sparkled,  and  her  lips  quivered,  and 
the  fever  fiush  that  had  come  and  gone  so  often  of  late  reddened 
her  cheek. 

Miss  Disney  had  a  spare  half-hour  before  the  morning  service 
at  the  iron  chapel,  leisure  in  which  to  pace  slowly  to  and  fro 
upon  the  lawn  before  the  Norman-gothic  porch,  thinking  of  her 
cousin  and  her  cousin's  wife. 

Did  she  seriously  mean  to  injure  either  of  them,  or  deliberately 
plot  the  ruin  of  her  fortunate  rival  ?  No.  Nor  had  she  any 
thought  of  a  day  when  death  might  sweep  that  rival  from  her 
path,  and  she  herself  be  Lady  Paulyn.  She  knew  her  cousin 
Reginald  too  well  to  hope  for  that ;  knew  that  his  brief  fancy 
for  her  had  never  been  more  than  an  idle  man's  caprice,  and 
had  perished  utterly  ten  years  ago ;  knew  that  whatever  wealth 
of  aft'ection  he  had  to  bestow  he  had  squandered  upon  his  wife ; 
knew  that  there  was  no  farther  outcome  of  feeling  to  be  hoped 
for  from  his  selfish  soul— that  whatever  love  he  could  feel,  what- 
ever self-sacrifice  he  was  capable  of,  love  and  sacrifice  alike 
would  be  wasted  upon  Elizabeth.  She  hoped  nothing  therefore, 
had  no  scheme,  no  dream  ;  only  stood  by  like  the  Chorus  in  aa 
old  tragedy,  or  prophesied  to  herself,  like  a  mute  Cassandra. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  2&7 

But  she  had  loved  her  cousin — had  in  that  distant,  nn for- 
gotten day  cherished  her  golden  dream  of  a  happy  prosperous 
existence  to  be  spent  by  his  side — and  she  could  not  see  him 
quite  as  he  really  was,  in  all  the  utter  commonness  of  hia  nature. 

As  for  her  feelings  towards  EUzabeth — well,  it  was  hardly 
to  be  supposed  that  she  should  love  the  woman  who  had  stolen 
from  her  that  crown  of  life  which  she  herself  had  hoped  to  wear 
— the  woman  who,  after  having  robbed  her  of  this  treasure, 
scarcely  took  the  trouble  to  be  civil  to  her.  No,  she  did  not 
love  her  cousin's  wife. 

"What  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  thought,  as  she  walked  to  and  fro  ; 
"  I  can  understand  the  change  in  her  now — the  change  which 
only  began  last  Sunday  afternoon.  It  was  the  shock  of  seeing 
this  man  again.  And  she  goes  to-day  to  hear  him  preach,  and 
will  contrive  to  see  him  perhaps  after  the  service.  What  ought 
I  to  do  ?  Warn  my  cousin  that  his  wife's  old  lover  is  Hving 
within  a  few  miles  of  him,  or  hold  my  tongue  and  let  him  make 
the  discovery  for  himself?  He  is  sure  to  make  it,  sooner  or 
later,  and  I  do  not  owe  him  so  much  devotion  that  I  need  put 
myself  in  a  false  position  to  save  him  a  little  trouble." 

So  Miss  Disney  did  nothing,  and  suffered  matters  to  take 
their  course,  contemplating  the  situation  in  a  cynical  spirit, 
prepared  for  anything  that  might  happen.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
old  dowager's  gloomy  i^rophecies — and  she  had  prophesied  about 
the  various  evils  to  come  of  her  son's  marriage  with  the  con- 
vulsive fury  of  a  pythoness  on  her  tripod — were  in  a  fair  way 
to  be  realised. 

"  It  really  seems  hardh^  wortli  while  to  hate  anybody  actively," 
mused  Miss  Disney, "  for  the  people  one  dislikes  generally  manage 
to  do  themselves  the  worst  injury  tliat  malice  could  wish  them, 
sooner  or  later." 

This  Sunday  was  finer  than  the  last.  The  autumn  sun  shone 
with  rare  splendour,  the  little  church  at  Dunallen  was  full  to 
overflowing.  The  word  had  gone  forth  throughout  the  neigh- 
bourhood that  Mr.  Mackenzie's  substitute  was  a  fine  preacher, 
a  man  who  had  done  good  service  as  a  missionary,  too.  People 
had  come  from  a  long  distance  to  hear  him.  Elizabeth  felt  her- 
self a  unit  among  the  crowd.  There  was  no  fear  that  he  would 
be  disturbed  by  the  sight  of  her,  she  thought ;  yet  she  had  a 
ieat  tolerably  near  the  pulpit — the  pew-opener  having  been 
eager  to  do  her  honour — a  seat  at  the  end  of  an  open  bench  in  a 
diagonal  fine  with  the  preacher. 

How  sweet  a  sound  had  the  familiar  prayers  when  he  read 
them  !  what  a  sound  of  long  ago  ! — full  of  old  sad  memories  ot 
the  churches  at  Hawleigh,  and  her  dead  father's  kindly  face. 
They  filled  her  soul  with  tenderness  and  remorse.  How  wicked 
(he  had  been  all  her  life !  how  hard,  how  selfish  !     She  was  no^ 


298  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

fit  to  worship  among  his  ilock.  How  many  and  many  a  time, 
Sunday  after  Sunday,  her  lips  had  gabbled  those  prayers 
mechanically,  while  her  worldly  thoughts  were  wandering  far 
away  from  the  fane  where  she  knelt !  It  seemed  as  if  his  voice 
gave  a  new  meaning  to  the  old  words ;  stirred  her  soul  to  its 
profoundest  depth,  as  the  pool  was  troubled  at  Siloam.  Not 
for  a  long  while — hardly  since  her  girlhood,  when  she  had  had 
fitful  moments  of  religious  enthusiasm  in  the  midst  of  her 
frivolity — had  she  felt  the  same  fervour,  blended  with  such  deep 
humility.  All  the  fever  and  excitement  of  the  last  week  was 
lulled  to  rest  in  the  solemn  quiet  of  that  little  church  among 
the  hills.  Again  she  felt  that  it  was  enough  for  her  to  be  near 
this  saintly  teacher,  whom  she  had  once  loved  with  but  too 
earthly  a  passion ;  enough  to  be  near  him,  and  that  she  might 
be  good  for  his  sake — a  better  wife  even. 

"I  will  try  to  do  my  duty  to  my  husband,"  she  said  to  herself, 
as  she  sat  listening  to  the  sermon,  her  eyes  bent  on  the  open 
book  in  her  lap,  not  daring  to  look  up,  lest  his  eyes  should  meet 
hers ;  strangely  dreading  that  first  direct  look  —  the  stern 
recognising  gaze  of  those  dark  eyes  of  his — after  this  gap  of 
time. 

His  sermon  was  upon  duty.  A  straight  and  simple  discourse, 
adorned  by  no  florid  eloquence,  but  made  touching  by  many  a 
tender  allusion  to  that  lovely  life  which  is  the  type  and  pattern 
of  all  human  excellence.  He  spoke  of  the  duties  which  belong 
to  every  relation  of  life ;  of  children  and  of  parents,  of  husbands 
and  of  wives.  It  was  a  sermon  after  the  apostolic  model ;  friendly 
counsel  to  his  new  friends,  here  among  remote  Scottish  hills,  far 
away  from  the  falsehoods  and  artificialities  of  crowded  cities;  a 
simple  pastoral  address  to  the  people  of  this  small  Arcadia. 

"  If  I  could  only  obey  him ! "  Elizabeth  thought ;  at  this 
moment  a  different  creature  from  the  brilliant  mistress  of  the 
house  with  the  many  balconies — the  presiding  genius  of  crowded 
afternoon  tea-drinkings,  the  connoisseur  in  ceramic  ware,  who 
would  melt  down  a  small  fortune  into  a  service  of  eggshell 
Sevres,  or  Vienna,  or  Carl  Theodore  cups  and  saucers,  and 
cream-jugs  and  tea-canisters,  for  the  mere  amusement  of  an 
idle  morning ;  a  widely  different  being  from  her  whose  last  ball 
had  astonished  the  town  by  its  reckless  extravagance ;  whose 
milliner's  bill  would  have  been  formidable  for  Miss  Killraajisegg, 

By  natsre  a  creature  of  impulse,  carried  away  by  every  vain, 
wind  of  doctrine,  she  was  at  least  accessible  to  good  influences 
as  well  as  evil,  and  was  for  this  one  brief  hour  exalted,  purified 
in  sj^irit  by  the  power  of  her  old  lover's  pleading — pleading  not 
as  her  lover,  only  as  one  who  loved  all  weak  and  erring  human 
creatures,  and  had  compassion  unawares  for  her. 

"  Does  he  know  P  "  she  wondered ;   "  does  he  know  that  J 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  299 

hoar  him  P  Surely  he  must  have  cast  one  of  his  penetrating 
glances  this  way." 

Nothing  in  his  tone  or  manner  indicated  the  surprise  or  emo- 
tion which  might  have  accompanied  such  a  recognition.  If  he 
had  seen  her  the  sight  had  not  moved  him,  the  memories  which 
shook  her  soul  to  its  centre  had  no  power  to  touch  him.  He  was 
hke  rock.  She  remembered  the  old  bitter  cry  that  had  gone  up 
from  her  lips  in  those  dreary  days  when  she  had  waited  for  his 
coming  back  to  her — 

"  His  heart  is  stone  !  " 

Strange  that  a  heart  should  be  so  tender  for  all  mankind,  yet 
80  hard  for  her. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  I  thought  my  love  was  worth  any 
man's  having,  just  because  they  told  me  I  was  prettier  than 
other  women.  Yet  /is  has  shown  me  that  he  could  live  without 
it,  that  he  could  have  it  and  hold  it,  and  let  it  go  without  a 
pang." 

Not  once  during  the  half-hour  in  which  he  spoke  to  his 
listening  Hock  had  she  dared  lift  her  eyes  to  his  face.  Sweet 
though  it  was  to  hear  him,  it  was  almost  a  relief  when  the 
sermon  ended.  She  breathed  more  freely,  stole  one  little  look  at 
the  pulpit  where  he  knelt,  saw  the  dark  head  and  strong  hands 
clasped  before  it,  and  wondered  again  if  he  knew  that  she  was 
80  near.      Then  came    the    chink-chink  of  the   sixpences,  the 

gradual  melting  away  of  the  congregation,  and  she  was  standing 
efore  the  gotliic  doorway.  This  time  Donald  did  not  keep  her 
waiting.  The  carriage  was  ready  for  her.  She  drove  home  very 
slowly,  stm  wondering. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

•*  !rhou  hear'st  the  winter  wind  and  weet, 

Nae  star  blinks  throui^li  the  driving  sleet  J 
Tak'  pity  on  my  weary  feet, 
And  shield  me  frae  the  rain,  jo. 

The  bitter  blast  that  round  me  blawB  !• 

Unheeded  howls,  unheeded  fa's : 
The  cauldness  o'  thy  heart's  the  cause 

Of  a'  my  gnief  and  pain,  jo." 

Lord  Paulyn  left  Scotland  in  the  following  week,  to  go  to 
Liverpool,  where  there  were  races  being  run  in  the  early  autumn, 
and  his  friends  departed  with  him,  to  be  replaced  by  a  relay  of 
other  friends  when  he  returned  to  Slogh-na-Dyack — a  return 


300  Strangers  and  I'ilgrims. 

which  was  at  present  problematical.  There  were  a  good  many 
races  crowded  together  at  this  "  back  end  "  of  the  year  :  a  late 
regatta  at  Havre,  where  LordPaulyn  had  jjledged  himself  to  sail 
his  yacht,  the  Pixy ;  races  at  Newmarket,  at  Pontefract,  at  the 
Curragh  of  Kildare,  in  all  which  ev  ents  his  lordship  was  more 
or  less  interested. 

So  the  two  ladies  were  left  alone  in  the  Norman  chateau,  to 
sit  in  the  long  tapestried  drawing-room,  with  its  modern  anti- 
quities, a  kind  of  Brummagem  Abbotsford  collection,  which 
Jiad  filled  the  soul  of  the  knife-powder  manufacturer  with  pride 
during  his  brief  occupation  of  his  castle.  They  were  alone,  and 
were  fain  to  stay  indoors  for  the  greater  part  of  the  week, 
week,  during  which  period  there  was  rain ;  such  rain  as  does  at 
times  bedew  Scotia's  fair  countenance ;  rain  persevering,  rain 
incessant,  cloud  above  cloud  piled  Pelion-upon-Ossa-wise  on  the 
mountain-top,  and  discharging  torrents  of  water.  Every  tiny 
watercourse  upon  the  hill- side,  a  narrow  thread  of  silver  in  fair 
seasons,  was  broadened  to  a  small  cataract ;  every  lowland  river 
overflowed  its  rugged  banks,  and  brawled  and  blustered  over  its 
stony  bed,  with  a  turbulent  air,  as  if  some  long-imprisoned 
spirit  of  the  stream  had  broken  suddenly  loose  and  were  eager 
to  make  havoc  of  the  country-side. 

Very  long  and  dreary  seemed  those  rainy  autumn  days  to  the 
mistress  of  the  chateau  and  her  uncongenial  companion.  Eliza- 
beth secluded  herself  in  her  own  rooms,  and  tried  to  read,  or 
tried  to  draw,  or  tried  to  find  a  tranquillising  influence  in  her 
piano, — a  Broadwood,  with  a  sweet  human  tone  in  its  music;  a 
tone  that  answered  to  the  touch  of  the  player,  and  was  not  all 
things  to  all  men,  after  the  I'ashion  of  some  newer  and  moro 
brilliant  instruments.  She  played  for  hours  at  a  time — played 
out  her  sorrows,  her  brief  flashes  of  joy,  which  were  at  most  the 
I'oys  of  memory,  her  moments  of  exaltation,  her  intervals  of 
despair — played  and  was  comforted,  or  laid  her  head  upon  the 
piano  and  wept  soothing  tears.  She  had  nothing  human  on  this 
earth  to  love ;  the  life  that  she  had  chosen  for  herself  left  her 
outside  those  small  tepid  loves  or  Likings  which  are  i\iQ pis-aller 
of  less  self-contained  spirits.  Even  the  thought  of  Blanche,  her 
favourite  sister,  in  these  moments  of  despair,  inspired  only  a 
shudder.  She  loved  her  dog  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world — except  that  one  person  of  whom  only  to  think  was  a  sin 
— and  the  dog,  being  dumb,  seemed  to  sympathise  with  her,  or 
at  least  never  uttered  trite  commonplaces  in  the  way  of  consola- 
tion, but  looked  up  at  her  with  dark  solemn  loving  eyes,  and 
seemed  to  be  moved  with  human  pity,  when  she  wept  upon  hig 
broad  honest  head. 

At  last  there  came  a  break  in  the  sky ;  the  clouds  upon  the 
l>Ul-top3  rolled  away,  and  disclosed  the  blue  heaven  whose  face 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  301 

they  had  veiled  so  long ;  the  cheerful  sunshine  brightened  tho 
waters;  cornfields  and  green  pastures  on  the  shores  of  Bute 
ceased  to  be  blotted  out  by  the  inexorable  rain.  The  world  was 
born  again,  as  when  Noah's  ark  came  aground  on  the  topmost 
peak  of  Ararat.  The  occasional  fine  days  of  a  Scotch  summer 
are  apt  to  be  very  fine,  and  this  last  glimpse  of  summer's  splen- 
dour  crowning  the  brow  of  autumn  was  bright  and  glorious. 

Ehzabeth  was  somewhat  cheered  by  this  change  in  the  wea- 
ther.    It  gave  her  at  least  liberty. 

Nor  was  she  slow  to  avail  herself  of  this  recovered  freedom. 
Long  before  noon  she  was  on  the  hills  beyond  sight  of  Slogh- 
na-Dyack.  Those  heathery  slopes  and  narrow  footpaths  by 
"vhich  she  went  were  swampy  after  the  long  rains,  and  wide 
water-pools  lay  in  every  hollow,  like  poUshed  steel  mirrors  re- 
flecting the  high  blue  sky ;  but  it  is  no  longer  one  of  thecharac 
teristics  of  a  fine  lady  to  take  her  walks  abroad  shod  in  satiii 
slippers,  and  Elizabeth  stepped  through  mud  and  swamp  with 
a  fearless  tread,  in  her  comfortable  mountain  boots.  O  sweet 
autumn  breezes,  0  lovely  world !  if  one  could  only  be  satisfied 
with  the  delight  of  mountain  scenery,  and  wide  blue  lakes  sleep- 
ing in  the  rare  sunshine ! 

That  week  of  rain  seemed  actually  to  have  exhausted  the 
evil  propensities  of  the  Caledonian  atmosphere;  one  fine  day 
succeeded  another,  days  whose  serenity  was  only  disturbed  by 
half-a-dozen  or  so  of  showers,  or  an  occasional  tempest  of  had ; 
and  Ehzabeth,  who  defied  brief  showers,  and  even  transient 
hailstorms,  or  the  sudden  obscuring  of  the  heavens  behind  a 
curtain  of  black  clouds,  presage  of  a  passing  hurricane — wan- 
dered about  the  mountains  in  delicious  freedom,  and  seemed 
almost  to  walk  down  the  demon  of  despondency  and  the  sharp 
stings  of  remorse.  She  rarely  drove,  for  she  could  hardly  use  her 
pony-carriage  without  ofi"ering  Miss  Disney  the  spare  seat  at  her 
side,  and  she  loved  best  to  be  alone,  quite  alone,  without  even 
Donald  the  gillie  seated  behind  her,  open-mouthed  and  empty- 
headed,  staring  vacantly  at  the  sky. 

She  liked  to  cUmb  the  hill- side  alone,  to  wander  alone  among 
the  sheep,  who  were  seldom  scared  by  her  light  footstep,  or  to 
sit  npon  some  craggy  bank,  where  fragments  of  primaeval  rock  \ 
seemed  to  be  mixed  up  with  the  heather  and  the  short  mountain 
grass,  as  if  this  part  of  the  world  had  but  just  emerged,  in-  v^ 
choate  and  unfinished,  from  chaos.  She  loved  to  sit  here  alone, 
her  sealskin  jacket  drawn  tightly  across  her  chest,  defying  the 
autumnal  winds,  in  whose  sweet  freshness  there  was  a  sharp 
sting  now  and  then,  like  a  faint  prophecy  of  coming  winter. 
Here  she  had  time  for  sad  thoughts,  time  to  repent  the  fooUsh- 
ness  of  all  her  hfe  gone  by,  and  to  long,  with  how  vain  a  long- 
ing, that  the  past  could  be  undone. 


802  Strangers  and  Pilgrimi 

Sometimes,  as  she  walked  homeward  in  the  beginning  of  the 
dusk,  foolish  fancies  would  steal  into  her  mind  at  sight  of  the 
white  towers  and  pinnacles  of  Slogh-na-Dyack  rising  above  the 
evening  mists  at  the  base  of  the  mountain — the  thought  of  what 
her  life  would  have  been  if  she  and  Malcolm  Forde  had  inhabited 
that  northern  chatcin;  how  every  room  in  that  great  house 
would  have  been  briybtened  and  glorified  by  domestic  love;  how 
sweet  to  go  huiae  from  her  walks  to  be  welcomed  by  him ;  how 
sweet  to  stand  in  the  porch  at  eventide  watching  for  his  coming 
— vain,  useless  fancies,  which  consumed  her  heart;  fancies  which 
fihe  knew  to  be  sinful  even,  but  could  not  put  out  of  her  mind. 

Thus  passed  the  second  week  of  Lord  Paulyn's  absence,  and 
there  was  as  yet  no  hint  of  his  return.  Elizabeth  was  still  free 
to  hve  her  own  Hfe,  a  life  of  utter  loneliness,  the  hfe  of  a  woman 
who  Uved  in  the  past  rather  than  in  the  j^resent ;  free  to  wander 
among  those  sohtary  hills,  with  the  dog  Gregarach  for  her  only 
companion. 

Wide  and  varied  as  had  been  her  wanderings,  she  had  never 
yet  crossed  the  path  of  Malcolm  Forde.  She  had  almost  left 
off  hoping  for  or  dreading  any  such  encounter.  Had  she  chosen 
to  put  herself  in  his  way,  to  take  the  village  of  Dunallen  in  the 
course  of  her  rambles,  or  to  loiter  among  the  outlying  cottages 
that  sprinkled  the  hill-side  just  around  the  village,  she  would 
have  been  very  sure  to  meet  him.  But  this  was  just  the  one 
thing  which  Elizabeth,  in  her  right  mind,  could  not  do.  Nor, 
had  she  languished  to  behold  him  as  the  fever-parched  wayfarer 
in  a  dry  land  languishes  for  a  draught  of  cold  water,  could 
she  have  deHberately  waylaid  him.  She  knew  that  to  think 
of  him  was  wrong,  yet  she  thought  of  him  by  day  and  by 
night,  having  long  lost  the  empire  over  her  thoughts.  But  she 
was  still  the  mistress  of  her  actions,  and  could  keep  them 
pure. 

She  made  the  most  of  the  fine  weather,  however,  without 
coming  too  near  Dunallen ;  and  even  when  there  came  threaten- 
ings  of  a  change,  menacing  clouds  again  brooding  over  the 
mountain  peaks,  she  was  not  alarmed,  and  left  Slogh-na- 
Dyack  as  usual,  immediately  after  breakfast,  with  the  faithful 
Gregarach  at  her  side. 

"  You  arc  not  going  out  to-day,  surely,"  said  Miss  Disney, 
who  had  come  down  to  the  hall  to  consult  the  barometer  ;  "  the 
glass  has  gone  back  to  much  rain." 

"  I  thought  we  ought  to  have  screwed  the  hand  to  that  par- 
ticular point  the  week  before  last,"  answered  Elizabeth  ;  "  much 
rain  seemed  to  be  the  normal  condition  of  Scotland.  Yes,  I 
am  going  for  my  constitutional.  I  daresay  I  shall  have  a 
ehower,  but  I'm  used  to  that." 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  a  storm,  and  there's  not  much  chance 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  303 

of  shelter  among  those  hills.  It's  really  very  wrong  of  you  to 
run  such  risks." 

"The  risk  of  catching  cold,  for  instance,"  said  Elizabeth 
contemptuously.  "  I  never  catch  cold.  I  sometimes  think  I 
have  a  charmed  life,   unassailable  by  the  elements." 

"  You  are  very  lucky,  in  that  particular  as  well  as  in  so 
many  others.  I  can  scarcely  put  my  head  out  of  doors  on  a 
damp  day  without  paying  for  my  imprudence  with  neuralgia 
or  influenza." 

"  How  disagi-eeable !"  said  EHzabeth,  looking  at  her  absently. 
"  Come,  Gregarach." 

She  walked  rapidly  away,  under  the  dull  threatening  sky, 
leaving  Hilda  in  the  porch,  looking  after  her  thoughtfully. 

"  What  a  miserable  restless  creature  she  is,  in  spite  of  her 
prosperity,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  One  ought  hardly  to  envy 
her.  Does  she  ever  meet  her  old  lover  on  those  lonely  hills,  I 
wonder?  No,  I  scarcely  think  that.  He  is  not  the  kind  of 
man  to  run  any  hazard  of  scorching  his  wings  at  the  old  flame, 
and  she — well,  no,  I  do  not  believe  she  is  bad  enough  for  that. 
She  only  wanders  about  because  she  is  discontented,  and  still 
madly  in  love  with  the  man  who  jilted  her." 

Two  hours  later  those  ominous  clouds  upon  the  mountain 
resolved  themselves  to  rain,  a  dense  driving  rain  that  came 
down  like  a  sheet  of  water,  and  threatened  to  extinguish  the 
landscape  in  watery  darkness.  Miss  Disney  stood  at  one  of 
the  drawing-room  windows  watching  the  deluge. 

"  Good  heavens,  if  she  is  without  shelter  in  such  rain  as  this  !" 
she  thought,  not  without  compassion.  "What  is  to  become 
of  her?"  And  then,  with  a  cynical  bitterness,  "If  she  were 
to  catch  her  death  of  cold  it  would  be  very  little  advantage  to 
me.  What  is  that  some  poet  says? — 'Even  in  their  ashes 
lurk  their  wonted  fires.'  But  some  ashes  are  quite  cold. 
Nothing  would  rekindle  them." 

On  the  hill-tops  that  blinding  rain  made  a  worse  darkness,  a 
confusion  of  sound  as  it  came  sweeping  down  with  a  shrill 
whistling  noise,  like  the  wind  shrieking  in  the  shrouds  at  sea, 
while  ever  and  anon  came  the  hoarse  roar  of  distant  thunder, 
shaking,  or  seeming  to  sliake,  even  those  deep-rooted  hills. 
Elizabeth  stood  beneath  the  tempest,  looking  helplessly  about 
her,  the  dog  cowering  at  her  side,  wondering  what  she  should 
do.  She  was  very  indifferent  to  small  inconreniences  in  the 
way  of  weather,  but  this  was  a  tempest  which  threatened  to 
sweep  her  off  the  mountain-side,  to  whirl  her  into  the  teeth  of 
the  welkin,  unsubstantial  and  helpless  as  a  tuft  of  thistledown. 
Even  Gregarach,  the  deerhound,  who  sliould  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  this  war  of  the  elements,  shuddered  and  was  afrrjd. 


804  Strangeri  and  Pilgrims. 

"  If  there  were  a  cave,  or  anything  of  that  kind,  handy,"  she 
eaid  to  herself,  trying  to  look  throtigh  the  rain.  She  might  aa 
Tvell  have  tried  to  pierce  the  curtain  of  futurity  itself.  The 
world  was  a  thing  expunged ;  there  was  nothing  left  but  herself, 
her  dog,  and  the  deluge. 

"  The  barometer  was  right  for  once  in  a  way,"  she  said. 
"  This  is  '  much  rain.'  But  I  thought  barometers  were  things 
one  ought  to  read  backwards,  Hke  gipsy  women's  fortune- 
telling." 

Happily  she  was  not  unfamiliar  with  her  surroundings,  and 
could  hardly  go  astray  or  topple  over  a  precipice  unawares. 
She  had  roamed  the  mountain  too  often  for  that  in  her  two 
months  of  residence  at  Slogh-na-Dyack.  She  stood  quite  still, 
pondering,  while  the  pitiless  rain  drenched  her  garments,  re- 
ducing even  the  comfortable  sealskin  to  a  black  shiny-looking 
substance,  from  which  the  water  ran,  not  as  from  a  duck's  back, 
but  soaking  the  fabric  thoroughly  as  it  trickled  slowly  down. 

What  should  she  do  ?  where  seek  her  nearest  shelter  ?  Yes, 
she  bethought  herself  at  last  of  a  place  of  refuge  at  the  base  of 
the  lonely  hill-side  on  which  she  stood,  a  refuge  so  insignificant 
that  it  had  hardly  impressed  its  image  on  her  memory,  though  she 
had  looked  down  upon  it  many  a  time  from  this  very  spot ;  an 
object  which,  in  her  dire  distress  to-day,  came  back  to  her  indis- 
tinctly, with  a  kind  of  uncertainty,  as  a  thing  which  might  be 
real  or  only  an  invention  of  her  own  fancy. 

"  Yes,"  she  thought,  "  I  do  believe  there  is  one  solitary 
cottage  down  there,  at  the  very  foot  of  this  hill.  I  have  a  vague 
recollection  of  seeing  it,  and  a  thin  thread  of  smoke  curling  up 
from  its  poor  little  chimney,  a  miserable  shanty  of  a  place,  with 
grass  growing  ever  so  high  on  the  roof;  but  O,  what  a  comfort 
it  would  be  to  find  myself  under  a  roof  of  any  kind  just  now ! 
Come,  Gregarach,  old  fellow,  we'll  make  for  the  cottage." 

It  was  hard  work  getting  down  the  steep  mountain-side  in 
that  blinding  rain.  She  had  held  up  her  little  silk  umbrella  aa 
well  as  she  could  against  the  violence  of  the  wind — she  had  now 
to  furl  it  and  make  it  her  staff.  Her  feet  slipped  upon  the 
sodden  grass  more  than  once  during  her  slow  descent,  and  for 
the  moment  she  fancied  it  was  all  over  with  her,  and  she  must 
roll  down  to  the  valley,  bruised  and  beaten  to  death  in  her  swift 
course.  "  Such  a  nasty  dirty  death ! "  she  thought,  with  a 
shudder. 

But  the  firm  light  feet  kept  their  vantage-ground,  the  slender 
figure  held  itself  erect  against  the  buffeting  of  the  wind  and  the 
force  of  the  raindrift,  and  Lady  Paulyn  arrived  finally,  only 
half-drowned,  in  the  narrow  road  at  the  base  of  the  mountain— 
a  lonely  cheerless  road,  at  the  best  of  times,  skirted  by  a  rocky 
bank,  beneath  which  ran  a  deep  narrow  stream,  now  swollen  t<r 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  305 

the  •width  of  a  small  river — a  spot  that  was  eminently  un- 
attractive except  from  the  artistic  and  Salvator-Rosa  point  of 
view — a  region  of  sterility  and  gloom,  which  hopeless  grief 
might  choose  for  its  abode,  where  nature  seemed  in  unison  with 
man's  despair,  where  the  braes  never  bloomed  and  the  birds 
never  sang. 

Yes,  there  was  the  cottage,  "just  a  but  and  a  ben;"  grass 
growing  high  upon,  the  steeply  sloping  roof,  the  tiny  squara 
window  obscured  by  a  handful  of  hay  stuffed  into  one  broken 
pane  and  a  fragment  of  linsey-woolsey  in  another.  The  very 
abode  of  desolation,  but  still  a  roof  to  cover  one,  EUzabeth 
thought  gladly. 

The  door  was  shut.  She  knocked,  but  no  one  came ;  then  tried 
the  latch,  and  opened  the  door  and  peered  in,  an  action  which 
even  in  that  moment  of  extremity  brought  back  the  thought  of 
the  old  days  at  Hawleigh,  when  she  had  stood  at  cottage  doors 
with  so  hght  a  heart,  so  full  of  vague  hope  and  unacknowledged 
love. 

"  May  I  come  in?"  she  asked  gently,  unable  to  see  whether 
the  place  was  occupied,  so  profound  was  the  obscurity  within. 
Her  dog  emphasised  the  question  by  a  fortissimo  bark. 

Even  that  loud  inquiry  brought  no  reply.  "  The  place  must 
be  empty,"  thought  Elizabeth,  and  made  bold  to  enter,  Grega- 
rach  going  before  her  with  loud  sniffings  and  a  suspicious  air. 

The  little  wretched  room  was  unoccupied,  but  there  was  some 
poor  apology  for  furniture  in  it.  A  chest  of  drawers — article 
most  dear  to  the  Scottish  mind — a  battered  old  table  and  one 
chair,  a  few  odds  and  ends  of  crockery  on  a  shelf  in  a  corner, 
and  a  good  deal  of  dirt.  There  were  signs  of  occui^ation,  too ;  a 
strugghng  turf  fire  on  the  hearth,  and  beside  the  fire  an  old 
black  saucepan  containing  some  herby  decoction,  from  which 
came  a  faintly  aromatic  odour. 

"  Odd,"  thought  Elizabeth,  "  but  I  suppose  the  people  are  out 
at  work.  Poor  creatures,  I  wonder  what  work  they  can  find  to 
do  in  such  weather  as  this." 

She  took  off  her  jacket,  which  seemed  a  mere  mass  of  brown 
pulp ;  took  off  her  hat,  also  sealskin,  reduced  to  the  same  pulpy 
condition ;  and  tried  to  shake  off  a  little  of  the  water  which 
hung  in  every  fold  of  her  garments.  She  tried  to  put  a  little 
moBe  life  into  the  turf  fire,  to  get  something  hke  heat  out  of  it 
if  possible,  but  it  was  only  a  lukewarm  fire,  and  she  looked 
about  the  room  in  vain  for  more  turf  or  a  fagot  of  wood. 

"  What  a  wretched  place  !"  she  said  to  herself;  "  and  to  think 
that  some  poor  creature  will  come  here  for  comfort  by  and  by 
when  his  work  is  done — is  thinking  of  it  now,  perhaps,  and 
longing  for  it,  and  calling  it  home." 

She  thought  of  Slogh-na-Dyack,  her  own  suite  of  rooms,  with 


306  Strangers  and  Pilgrima, 

their  many  windows  looking  over  the  water,  the  infinite  InxnTy, 
the  triumph  of  man's  inventiveness  exemplified  in  every  con- 
trivance that  can  make  life  pleasant;  she  thought  of  the  dismal 
contrast  between  this  home  and  hers,  and  of  her  own  discon- 
tented mind,  to  which  that  costly  chateau  had  seemed  no  betti 
than  a  splendid  pi'ison. 

"  Why  cannot  fine  scenery  and  handsome  furniture  satisfy 
one's  heart  ?  "  she  said  to  herself.  "  Why  must  one  always  long 
for  something  else,  for  some  one  whose  mere  presence  would 
make  such  a  shelter  as  this  tolerable,  for  some  one  in  whose 
company  one  would  have  no  thought  of  worldly  wealth  or 
worldly  pleasure  ?  " 

She  looked  round  the  darksome  little  room — looked  up  at  the 
low  broken  ceiling,  which  was  rain-bKstered  and  stained — looked 
roimd  with  a  sad  smile. 

"  If  Malcolm  had  married  me,  and  poverty  had  reduced  us  to 
Buch  place  as  this,  I  would  have  been  happy  with  him,"  she 
thought.  "  I  would  have  tucked  up  my  sleeves  and  scrubbed 
and  toiled,  and  tried  to  make  this  wretched  hovel  bright  and 
comfortable  for  him.  It  would  have  been  my  pride  to  bear 
deiDrivation,  misery  even,  for  his  safe.  I  could  then  have  said 
to  him,  *  Tou  doubted  me  once,  Malcolm,  but  is  not  this  real 
loveP'" 

She  had  seated  herself  in  the  solitary  chair  close  by  the  low 
open  hearth,  trying  to  get  a  little  warmth  out  of  the  fading  fire, 
trying  not  to  shiver  very  much  with  that  wretched  sensation  of 
cold  and  dampness  which  had  crept  over  her  since  she  had 
found  shelter  in  the  cottage.  She  had  opened  the  door  two  or 
three  times  and  looked  out,  with  a  faint  hope  of  seeing  some 
indication  of  fair  weather,  or  at  least  some  lessening  of  the  ruin ; 
but  the  water-drops  came  down  with  a  sullen  persistence — came 
down  as  she  had  seen  them  fall  day  after  day  from  her  window, 
without  a  break  in  the  watery  monotony. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall  have  to  stay  here  two  or  three  days,"  she 
thought,  "  while  all  the  Slogh-na-Dyack  people  are  searching  the 
country  for  me,  and  a  private  detective  watching  all  outward- 
bound  vessels  that  leave  the  Clyde,  lest  I  should  have  taken  it 
in  my  head  to  run  away  to  America  ?  It  really  seems  as  if  I 
should  have  to  choose  between  staying  here  all  day  and  all  night, 
or  walking  home  in  the  wet.  If  I  could  only  see  a  stray  boy — 
a  native  boy  inured  to  rain — I  might  send  him  home  for  a 
carriage." 

But  looking  for  stray  boys  seemed  almost  as  hopeless  aa 
watching  for  the  ending  of  the  rain  ;  so  Elizabeth  shut  the  door, 
and  went  back  to  tlie  dismal  hearth,  which  became  every  minute 
colder  and  more  dismal,  and  to  her  own  sad  useless  thoughts. 

She  was   startled  from  her  reverie  presently  by  a   sudden 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  307 

idctivity  on  tlie  part  of  Gregarach,  who  had  been  quiet  enough 
hitherto,  having  stretched  himself  among  the  ashes,  in  the  hope 
of  getting  warm,  where  he  had  lain  until  now,  dozing  fitfully, 
and  looking  up  at  his  mistress  wistfully  ever  and  anon,  as  who 
should  say,  "  We  might  surely  have  found  better  quarters." 

Now  he  started  to  his  feet,  gave  his  short  bark,  like  tht 
sergeant's  cry  of  "  Attention ! "  and  ran  to  the  door  communi* 
eating  with  the  other  chamber  of  the  cottage ;  a  darksome  little 
den,  into  which  Elizabeth  had  looked  when  she  first  took 
shelter ;  a  room  which  had  seemed  to  her  utterly  empty.  The 
door  was  a  little  way  ajar ;  the  dog  pushed  it  open  with  his  nose, 
and  rushed  in. 

Elizabeth  started  np,  not  frightened — fear  and  Elizabeth  Lut- 
trell  had  ever  been  strangers — only  anxious ;  while  there  flashed 
across  her  brain  old  stories  of  Scottish  shelters,  and  faithful 
dogs,  whose  sagacity  had  protected  their  masters  from 
murder. 

"  I  have  my  watch  and  purse,"  she  thought,  "  and  all  these 
foolish  diamond  rings,  which  I  put  on  my  fingters  every  morning 
trom  sheer  habit,  just  as  a  red  Indian  tricks  himself  out  with 
beads  and  wampum.  I  should  be  rather  a  valuable  booty.  And 
this  cottage  has  an  uncanny  look  at  the  best  of  times,  standing 
alone,  under  the  shadow  of  the  hill,  and  with  that  deep  dark 
river  running  yonder,  ready  to  swallow  up  murdered  travellers." 
She  was  not  frightened,  though  it  was  not  beyond  the  scope 
of  possibility  that  this  vision,  conjured  up  half  in  jest,  might  be 
realised  in  hideous  earnest.  That  sad  and  bitter  smil^  so  fre- 
quent  on  her  lips  of  late,  lighted  up  her  face  just  now,  as  she 
tiiought  how  such  things  have  been,  and  how  lives  more  precious 
than  hers  had  come  to  dark  and  terrible  ending. 

How  well  that  swift  river  could  keep  a  secret !  It  would  be 
so  easy  a  matter  to  dispose  of  her.  The  dog  might  give  a  little 
trouble,  perhaps,  but  a  knock  on  the  head  would  make  an  end  of 
him,  and  what  resistance  could  site  ofler  ?  Then  would  follow 
along  and  tedious  quest;  rewards  offered,  heaven  and  earth 
moved,  as  it  were,  on  behalf  of  a  lady  of  quality,  but  the 
mystery  for  ever  unsolved.  Dark  scandals  invented  perhaps ; 
her  reputation  tarnished  by  foul  imaginations.  Some  people 
preferring  the  belief  that  she  was  living  a  shameful  seci'et  life 
somewhere,  to  the  simpler  theory  of  her  untimely  death. 

She  could  almost  fancy  what  society  would  say  of  her  in 
years  to  come,  when  her  husband  had  married  again  and  for- 
gotten her. 

"  0,  there  was  another  Lady  Paulyn,  you  know,  who  disap- 
peared in  a  curious  manner.  No  one  knows  whether  she  is  alivo 
or  dead :  but  Lord  Paulyn  married  again,  all  the  same — his 
cuusin,  a  IMiss  Disney,  a  mu^h  more  suitable  match.     The  first 


308  '(Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

wife  was  a  very  pretty  woman,  gave  capital  parties,  and  so  oik\ 
bat  they  did  not  live  happily  together." 

And  he  would  hear  of  her  dark  fate,  and  wonder,  and  be 
sorry.  Yes,  surely  even  his  stony  heart  would  be  moved  by 
her  dismal  end ;  that  most  horrible  of  all  dooms,  at  least  to 
the  minds  of  the  survivors,  the  fate  about  which  there  is  un- 
certainty. 

She  had  time  for  aU  these  thoughts  while  Gregarach  was  snif- 
fing about  the  inner  room. 

Presently  he  set  up  a  piteous  whine ;  whereupon  Elizabeth, 
with  a  calm  fixed  face,  as  of  one  who  goes  to  her  doom,  pushed 
the  door  open  again — it  had  swung  to  behind  the  dog — and  went 
boldly  into  the  gloomy  den,  where  murder  perchance  lurked  in 
the  shadow  of  the  sloping  roof. 

The  dog  was  standing  with  his  forepaws  upon  a  miserable 
little  bed;  a  bed  she  had  not  observed  in  her  first  inspection  r- 
the  chamber ;  a  bed  set  into  the  wall,  cupboard  fashion,  after  the 
manner  of  some  Scottish  beds,  the  lower  end  inclosed  by  a 
wooden  shutter,  the  head  sheltered  by  a  checked  blue  curtain, 
limp  and  ragged. 

A  withered  skinny  hand  grasped  this  meagre  drapery,— 
hardly  the  hand  of  a  stalwart  assassin;  a  hand  of  a  dirty  waxen 
hue,  wasted  by  age  or  sickness, — and  a  feeble  voice  entreated 
plaintively,  "  Tak'  awa'  the  dog." 

Elizabeth  ran  to  the  bed.  "Don't  be  frightened,  he  won't 
hurt  you,"  she  said.  "  Down,  Gregarach  ;  down,  old  fellow. 
Indeed  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  him ;  he's  a  sensible  aflpec- 
tionate  fellow." 

The  dog  licked  his  mistress's  hand,  as  if  in  grateful  ac- 
knowledgment of  this  praise.  She  had  as  yet  seen  no  more  of 
the  occupant  of  the  bed  than  that  skinny  hand  clutching  the 
curtain;  but  the  curtain  was  drawn  back  now,  reveaUng  a 
ghastly  figure ;  a  woman,  old,  or  made  prematurely  old  by  toil 
and  care  and  sickness  ;  a  face  haggard  as  death  itself,  under  a 
tumbled  nightcap ;  dim  eyes  staring  at  the  intruder  with  vague 
wonder. 

"  Something  to  drink,"  gasped  this  helpless  creature ;  "  for 
God's  sake  give  mw  something — the  stuff  that  auld  Becky  made." 

Ehzabeth  looked  round  her  heljilessly.  She  could  see  no  siga 
of  a  cooling  draught  for  those  pale  parched  lips;  not  even  a 
pitcher  of  water,  much  less  the  stuff  concocted  by  old  Becky, 
whoever  that  person  might  be. 

"  0,  where  shall  I  find  you  something  ?  "  she  said.  "  Poor 
soul,  I'll  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you,  if  you'll  tell  me  how." 

"  The  stuff  by  the  fire,"  said  the  woman ;  "  but  dinna  leave 
yon  doggie  with  me." 

The  stuff  by  the  fire;  that  dark  concoction  in  the  saucepan. 


StrangerH  and  Pilgrims.  309 

The  recollection  of  it  flashed  upon  Elizabeth.  She  called  her 
dog,  and  went  back  to  the  outer  room ;  found  a  cracked  mug, 
poured  some  of  the  dark-looking  drink  into  it,  and  carried 
it  back  to  the  sick  woman,  and  held  it  gently  to  the  dry  lips, 
supporting  the  weary  head  upon  her  arm,  with  a  touch  of  that 
natural  tenderness  which  had  endeared  her  to  the  cottagers  at 
Eawleigh. 

"Have  you  been  long  ill ?  "  she  asked. 

**  Three  weary  weeks.  I've  keepit  my  bed  three  weeks,  but  I 
was  bad  before  ;  all  my  Hmbs  aching,  and  a  weight  on  my  head. 
I  ccnld  hardly  keep  about  to  do  for  myself  and  my  son ;  he's  a 
faria  labourer,  beyond  Dunallen;  and  then  I  was  forced  to  give 
up,  and  tak'  to  my  bed.  The  fever's  been  mickle  bad  about 
th  ese  parts." 

"  The  fever !  "  repeated  Elizabeth,  with  a  faint  shiver,  but 
not  any  shrinking  motion  of  the  arm  that  supported  the  sick 
woman's  head. 

"  Yes,  it's  been  verra  bad ;  maybe  you  shouldna  be  in  here ; 
some  folks  call  it  catching,  but  I  dinna  ken.  The  Lord  knows 
where  I  could  have  caught  it,  for  there's  few  folks  come  my  way 
to  bring  me  so  much  as  a  fever,  except  the  new  minister.  I 
Buppose  you  are  the  minister's  wife  ?  " 

Elizabeth  smiled  at  the  question.  "No,"  she  said,  "I'm 
not  the  minister's  wife.  It  was  only  selfishness  that  brought 
me  here ;  I  was  caught  in  the  storm,  and  came  to  your  cottage 
for  shelter.  But  now  I  am  here  I  may  be  able  to  help  to  get 
you  veil.  I  cr.n  send  you  wine,  and  tea,  jelly,  broth,  all  kinds 
of  things  to  strengthen  you.  And  a  doctor,  too,  if  you've  had 
no  doctor." 

"  I've  had  auld  Becky,  she  kens  as  much  as  ony  doctor ;  and 
the  new  minister,  he  knows  a  deal.  And  he  brings  me  wine 
and  things,  but  it's  very  httle  that  I  can  tak'  the  noo,  I'm  so 
low.  There's  some  wine  in  yon  cupboard ;  you  might  gie  me 
a  drappie." 

"  Let  me  settle  your  pillow  more  comfortably  first." 

She  arranged  the  pillow,  fever- tainted  perhaps;  the  whole 
chamber  had  a  faint  foetid  odour  that  tried  her  sorely.  But 
fear  of  death,  even  in  this  den,  where  lurked  a  foe  scarce  lesa 
deadly  than  the  assassin  of  her  imagination,  she  had  none. 
The  day  was  past  when  her  Ufe  had  been  worth  cherish- 
ing. She  placed  the  pillow  under  the  weary  head,  wiped 
the  damp  brow  with  her  handkerchief,  murmured  a  few 
comforting  words,  phrases  she  had  learned  in  the  brief  period 
of  her  ministrations,  and  then  went  to  the  cupboard,  a  little 
hutch  in  the  corner,  to  seek  for  the  wine. 

The  new  minister ;  that  was  he,  no  doubt.  She  touched  the 
bottle  almost  reverently,  thinking  that  his  hand  had  sanctified 


310  Strangers  and  PilgrirM. 

it.     The  woman  hardly  put  her  lips  to  the  cup ;  it  was  only  by 

gentle  entveatings  that  Elizabeth  could  induce  her  to  take  a  few 
spoonfuls  of  the  wine.  Not  all  the  vintages  of  Oporto  could 
have  brought  back  life  or  vigour  to  that  worn-out  habitation  of 
clay,  in  which  the  soul  fluttered  feebly,  before  departing  for  ever. 

There  was  a  Bible  on  a  chair  by  the  shuttered  end  of  the  bed. 

"  Will  you  read  me  a  chapter  ?  "  asked  the  woman,  after  an 
interval  of  feeble  groanings  and  muttered  lamentations. 

Elizabeth  opened  the  book  immediately,  chose  that  chapter  of 
chapters,  that  tender  farewell  address  of  Christ  to  his  Apostles, 
the  fourteenth  of  St.  John,  and  began  to  read  in  her  low  earnest 
voice,  as  she  had  read  many  a  time  in  the  sunny  cottages 
at  Hawleigh,  with  the  bees  humming  in  the  mvrtle-bushea 
outside  the  window,  the  green  trees  waving  gently  under  the 
summer  sky.  This  gloomy  hovel  in  the  shadow  of  the  moun- 
tain seemed  a  bit  of  another  world. 

She  read  on  till  the  patient  sank  into  an  uneasy  slumber, 
breathing  heavily.  And  then,  seeing  her  to  all  appearance  fast 
asleep,  Elizabeth  laid  the  book  down,  and  looked  at  her  watch. 
It  was  nearly  five  o'clock ;  the  day,  which  had  been  dark  at 
two,  was  gi-owing  darker ;  the  rain,  which  she  could  just 
see  through  the  cloudy  glass  of  the  narrow  casement,  was  still 
coming  down  steadily,  with  no  symptom  of  abatement. 

"  It  is  clear  I  shall  have  no  alternative  between  walking 
home  in  the  rain  or  staying  here  all  night,"  thought  EUzabeth. 
"  Or,  stay :  this  poor  soul  spoke  of  her  son ;  he  will  come  home 
by-and-by,  pei"haps,  and  he  might  fetch  the  carriage  for  me." 

There  was  comfort  in  this  hope.  Though  not  afraid  of  the 
fever,  she  was  not  a  little  desirous  to  escape  from  that  tainted 
atmosphere,  in  which  tc  breathe  was  discomfort.  And  yet  it 
seemed  cruel  to  leave  that  helpless  creature,  perhaps  to  die  alone. 

"  I  must  try  to  find  a  nurse  for  her,  somehow,"  she  thought; 
"  I'll  ask  her  about  this  old  Becky  when  she  wakes.  It  seema 
almost  inhuman  to  let  her  lie  here  alone." 

She  wondered  that  Malcolm  Forde  had  not  done  more  for  this 
stricken  creature.  But  there  were  doubtless  many  such  in  his 
flock,  and  he  had  done  his  utmost  in  bringing  her  wine  and 
coming  to  see  her  now  and  then. 

The  woman  had  been  asleep  about  half-an-hour,  while 
Elizabeth  sat  and  watched  her,  thinking  her  own  sad  thoughts, 
when  the  outer  door  was  opened.  It  was  the  son  returning 
from  his  work,  no  doubt.  Elizabeth  rose,  and  went  to  meet 
him,  anxious  to  have  tidings  of  her  whereabouts  conveyed  to 
Slogh-na-Dyack  before  nightfall. 

She  had  her  hand  upon  the  door  between  the  two  rooms, 
when  another  hand  pushed  it  gently  open.  Drawing  back  a 
little,  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with  Malcolm  Forde. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims,  311 

She  could  see,  plainly  enough,  that  for  the  first  few  moments 
he  failed  to  recognise  her  in  the  half-light  of  that  dismal 
chamber.  He  looked  at  her,  first  in  simple  wonder,  then  with 
eager  scrutiny. 

"  Good  God,"  he  cried  at  last,  "  is  it  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  feeble  attempt  to  take  things 
lightly.  "Did  you  not  know  we  were  such  near  neighbours? 
Strange,  isn't  it,  how  people  are  drawn  together  from  all 
the  ends  of  the  earth,  Parthians  and  Medes  and  Elamites, 
and  the  dwellers  in  Mesopotamia?  " 

He  seemed  hardly  to  hear  her.  He  was  looking  at  the  bed 
■with  an  expression  of  unspeakable  horror. 

"  Come  mto  the  next  room,"  he  sajd,  drawing  her  quickly 
across  the  threshold,  and  shutting  the  door  upon  the  sick 
chamber.     "  What  brought  you  to  this  place  ?  " 

"  Accident.     I  came  here  to  find  shelter  from  the  rain." 

"  You  had  better  have  stayed  in  the  rain.  But  God  grant 
that  yon  may  have  taken  no  harm!  I  come  here  daily,  and 
stay  beside  that  poor  creature's  bed  for  aji  hour  at  a  time.  But 
I  believe  custom  has  made  me  fever-proof  You  must  get 
home  instantly,  Lady  Paulyn  ;  and  take  all  possible  precautions 
against  infection.  That  woman  has  a  fever  which  may  be — 
— which  I  fear  is — contagious ;  but  I  trust  in  God  that  your 
superb  health  may  defy  contagion,  if  you  are  only  reasonably 
carefuh" 

He  opened  the  outer  door  to  its  widest  extent.  "Let  us 
have  as  much  air  as  we  can,  even  if  we  have  some  rain  with 
it,"  he  said.  "It  is  too  wet  for  you  to  go  home  on  foot. 
I  must  find  some  one  to  run  to  Slogh-na-Dyack  and  fetch  your 
carriage." 

"  You  know  where  I  hve,  then  ?  "  with  a  wounded  air.  It 
seemed  so  stony-hearted  of  him  to  be  quite  familiar  with  the 
fact  of  her  vicinity,  and  yet  never  to  have  brolceu  down  the 
barriers  of  reserve,  never  to  have  approached  her  in  his  sacred 
character.  To  be  careful  for  all  the  rest  of  his  fiock,  for  all  the 
other  sinners  in  this  world — Fiji  islanders  even — and  to  have  not 
one  thought,  not  one  care,  no  touch  of  pity  for  her ! 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  in  his  cool  grave  way,  imperturbable  as 
the  very  rock,  looking  at  his  watch  thoughtfully.  "  The  young 
man  will  not  be  home  till  seven  perhaps.  I  must  go  to  Slogh- 
na-Dyack  myself 

"  What,  through  this  rain  !  0,  please  don't,  you'll  catch  your 
death  of  cold." 

"  I  came  here  through  this  rain,  and  I  am  very  well  pro- 
tected," he  said,  glancing  at  his  macintosh.  "  Yes,  that  is  the 
only  way.  Promise  me  that  you  will  stand  at  this  open  door  till 
your  carriage  comes  for  you.* 


312  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

"  But  if  that  poor  soul  should  call  me,  if  she  should  be  thirsty 
again,  I  can't  refuse  to  attend  to  her,  can  I,  Mr.  Forde?  " 

"  What,  you  have  been  attending  to  her — hanging  over  her  to 
give  her  drink  ?  "  with  a  look  of  intense  pain. 

"  Yes ,  I  have  been  arranging  her  bed  a  little,  and  giving  her 
some  wine  you  brought,  and  doing  what  I  could  to  make  her 
comfortable.  It  reminds  me  of — of  the  old  time  at  Hawleigh, 
when  I  had  a  short  attack  of  benevolence.  O,  please  don't  look 
so  anxions.  I  am  sure  not  to  catch  the  fever.  What  is  that 
line  of  somebody's  ? — '  Death  shuns  the  wretch  who  fain  the 
blow  would  meet.'  I  am  just  the  kind  of  useless  person  who 
never  dies  of  anything  but  extreme  old  age.  Tou  will  see  me 
creeping  round  Hyde  Park,  forty  years  hence,  in  a  yellow  chariot 
and  a  poke  bonnet,  with  pug  dogs  and  a  vinegar-faced  com- 
panion." 

"You  have  not  left  off  your  old  random  talk,"  he  said,  regret- 
fully. I  cannot  forbid  you  to  obey  the  dictates  of  humanity.  If 
the  poor  old  woman  should  ask  you  for  anything,  you  must  give 
it.  But  do  not  bend  over  her  more  than  you  can  help,  and  do 
not  stay  in  that  room  longer  than  is  absolutely  necessary.  I 
have  arranged  with  a  woman  at  Dunallen  to  come  and  nurse 
her.     She  will  be  here  to-night." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,  and  I  shall  be  stiU  more  glad  if  you  wiU 
let  me  contribute  to  your  poor.  May  I  send  you  a  cheque  to- 
morrow ?  " 

"  You  may  send  me  as  many  cheques  as  you  like.  And  now, 
good-bye.     The  carriage  will  be  here  before  I  can  return." 

He  gave  her  his  hand,  with  an  air  so  frank  and  friendly  that 
it  stung  her  almost  as  if  it  had  been  an  insult,  pressed  the  httle 
ice-cold  hand  she  gave  him  in  hi«  friendly  grasp,  and  went  out 
into  the  rain. 

"  He  never,  never,  never  could  have  loved  me,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, looking  after  him  with  a  piteous  face,  and  bursting  into  a 
passion  of  tears.  What  had  she  expected?  That  he,  Malcolm 
Forde,  the  man  who  had  given  his  life  to  God's  service,  would 
fall  on  his  knees  at  the  feet  of  Lord  Paulyn's  wife,  in  the  sur- 
prise of  that  sudden  meeting,  and  tell  her  how  she  had  bvolvcu 
his  heart  five  years  ago,  and  how  she  was  still  much  more  dear 
to  him  than  honour,  or  the  love  of  God  P 

"  He  looked  frightened  at  the  idea  of  my  having  caught  the 
fever,"  she  thought,  when  she  had  recovered  from  that  foolish 
burst  of  passionate  anger,  bitter  disappointment,  unreasoning 
and  unreasonable  love.  "But  that  was  only  from  a  philan- 
thropic point  of  view;  just  as  a  family  doctor  would  have  done. 
Was  there  ever  any  one  so  impenetrable  ?  One  would  think  wa 
had  never  been  more  than  the  most  commonplace  acquaintance» 
and  had  only  parted  from  each  other  a  week  ago." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  313 

She  stood  leaning  against  the  door-post,  looking  at  the  dreary 
waste  of  sodden  turf,  the  fast-flowing  river,  the  mountain  on  the 
other  side  of  the  valley,  which  was  hke  a  twin  brother  of  the 
mountain  behind  the  cottage. 

She  stood  thus,  lost  in  gloomy  thought,  thought  that  was 
more  gloomy  than  the  landscape,  more  monotonous  than  the 
rain,  when  a  footstep  sounded  a  little  way  off.  She  looked  up, 
and  saw  Mr.  Forde  coming  back  to  her. 

"  I  met  a  lad  who  was  able  to  carry  the  message  faster  than  I 
could,"  he  said,  "  so  I  have  returned  to  prevent  your  running 
any  risk  by  ministering  to  that  poor  soul  yonder." 

He  looked  into  the  other  room ;  the  woman  was  still  asleep. 
He  waited  a  little  by  the  bed-side,  and  then  came  back  to  the 
doorway  where  Elizabeth  stood  looking  out  at  the  turbid  water. 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  were  caught  in  the  rain  ?  "  he 
asked — a  foolish  question,  perhaps,  inasmuch  as  it  had  rained 
without  ceasing  for  the  last  four  hours. 

"  I  hardly  know ;  it  seems  an  age.  I  was  wandering  about  the 
mountain  for  ever  so  long,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  till  I  hap- 
pened tiO  remember  this  cottage,  and  then  we  came  down,  my 
poor  drenched  dog  and  I,  and  I  crept  in  here  for  refuge.  And  I 
seem  to  have  been  here  half  a  hfetime." 

Half  a  hfetime,  more  than  a  lifetime,  she  thought ;  for  were 
not  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  any  common  existence  concentrated 
in  this  meeting  with  him  ?  The  dog  was  licking  his  hand,  with 
abject  affection,  as  if  he  too  had  known  this  man  years  ago,  and 
been  parted  from  him,  and  loved  him  passionately  throughout 
that  severance;  but  strange  creatures  of  the  dog-tribe  had  a 
habit  of  attaching  themselves  to  Mr.  Forde. 

"  And  you  have  been  in  your  wet  clothes  all  this  time,"  he 
eaid  anxiously,  with  the  pastor's  grave  solicitude,  not  the  lover's 
alarm.     "  I  fear  you  may  suffer  for  this  unfortunate  business." 

"  Rheumatism,  or  sciatica,  or  lumbago,  or  something  of  that 
kind,"  she  said ;  "  those  seem  such  old  women's  complaints.  I 
daresay  I  shall  have  a  fearful  attack  of  rheumatism,  and  my 
doctor  and  I  will  call  it  neuralgia,  out  of  politeness.  No  one  on 
the  right  side  of  thirty  would  own  to  rheumatism."  This,  with 
her  lightest  good-society  manner. 

"  I  should  recommend  you  to  send  for  your  doctor  directly  you 
get  home,  and  take  precautionary  measures." 

"  I  have  no  doctor,"  she  answered,  a  little  impatiently.     "  I 

hate  doctors.     They  could  not  save  the  child  I  loved — and " 

Her  lip  quivered,  and  the  dark  beautiful  eyes  filled,  but  she 
brushed  away  the  tears  quickly,  deeply  ashamed  of  that  confes- 
sion of  weakness. 

"  You  have  lost  a  child  ?  "  said  Mr.  Forde.  "  I  heard  nothing 
of  that.    I  know  very  little  of  the  history  of  my  old  friends  «ince 


314  Strangers  mid  Pilgrims. 

I  left  England.  I  did  hear  of  your  dear  father's  death,  and  was 
deeply  grieved,  but  I  have  heard  little  more  of  those  I  knew  at 
Hawleigh." 

Not  a  word  of  her  marriage ;  but  he  had  heard  of  that,  no 
doubt ;  had  heard  and  had  felt  no  surprise,  taking  it  for  granted 
^hat  she  was  engaged  to  Lord  Paulyn  when  he  set  forth  upon 
ois  mission. 

"  I  am  sincerely  sorry  to  hear  you  have  lost  one  so  dear  to 
you.  But  God,  who  saw  fit  to  take  your  little  one  away,  may, 
in  his  good  time " 

"  Please  do  not  say  that  to  me.  I  know  what  you  are  going 
to  say;  it  has  been  said  to  me  so  often,  and  it  only  makes  me 
more  miserable.  I  could  never  love  another  child  as  I  loved 
him,  the  one  who  was  snatched  away  from  me  just  when  he 
was  growing  brighter  and  lovelier  every  day.  I  could  never 
trust  myself  to  love  another  child.  I  would  keep  it  a  stranger 
to  my  heart.  I  would  take  pains  to  keep  it  at  a  distance  from 
me.  I  should  think  it  a  dishonour  to  my  dead  boy  to  love  any 
other  child.  But  don't  let  us  speak  of  him.  I  have  been  for- 
bidden ever  to  speak  or  to  think  of  him." 

"Forbidden?     By  whom?" 

"  By  the  doctors.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  speak 
of  him  just  now.  It  is  hke  letting  loose  a  flood  of  poisoned 
waters." 

He  looked  at  her  gravely,  wonderingly,  with  a  look  of  un- 
speakable sorrow.  Was  it  for  this  she  had  broken  faith  with 
him  ?  Had  all  the  splendours  and  vanities  of  the  world  brought 
her  so  little  joy  ?  The  wan  and  sunken  cheek,  the  too  brilUant 
eye,  told  of  a  heart  ill  at  ease,  of  a  life  that  was  not  peace. 

"Let  us  talk  of  yourself,"  she  said,  in  an  eager  hurried 
manner.  "I  hope  you  found  the  life — about  which  you  had 
dreamed  so  long — a  realisation  of  your  brightest  visions  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  with  a  far-oiF  look,  which  of  old  had 
always  suggested  to  Elizabeth  that  she  was  of  very  small 
account  in  his  Hfe.  "  Yes,  I  have  not  been  disappointed ;  God 
has  been  very  good  to  me.  I  go  back  to  my  work  at  the  close 
of  this  year,  and  to  work  in  a  wider  field." 

"  You  go  back  again,  back  again  to  that  strange  world  !"  with 
a  faint  shudder.  "  How  little  you  can  care  for  your  hfe,  and  for 
all  that  makes  life  worth  having !" 

"  For  life  itself,  for  the  bare  privilege  of  existence  in  this  par- 
ticular world,  I  do  not  care  very  much ;  but  I  should  like  to  be 
permitted  to  finish  my  work,  so  far  as  one  man  can  finish  his 
allotted  portion  of  so  vast  a  work." 

"  And  the  savages,"  said  Ehzabeth,  "did  they  never  try  to 
kill  you?" 

"  No,"  he  answered,  smiling  at  her  look  of  terror.    "  Before 


Slrangeri  and  Pilgrims.  315 

tkey  could  quite  make  up  their  minds  to  do  that,  I  had  taught 
them  to  love  me." 

"  And  you  will  go  out  to  them  again,  and  die  there !  For  if 
they  spare  you,  fever  will  strike  you  down,  perhaps,  or  the  sea 
swallow  you  up  alive  in  some  horrible  shipwreck.  How  can  yo« 
be  so  cruel — to  yourself?" 

"  Cruel  to  myself  in  choosing  a  pathway  that  has  already  led 
me  to  happiness,  or  at  least  to  supreme  content !" 

"  Supreme  content !  What,  you  had  nothing  to  regret  in  that 
dreary,  dreary  world  ?  O,  I  know  that  it  is  full  of  flowers  and 
splendid  tropical  foliage,  and  roofed  over  with  blue  skies,  and 
lighted  by  larger  stars,  and  washed  by  greener  waves,  than  we 
ever  see  here;  but  it  must  be  so  dreary — twelve  thousand  miles 
from  everything." 

"  From  Bond-street,  and  the  Burlington-arcade,  and  the  Eoyal 
Academy,  and  the  opera-houses,"  said  Mr.  Forde,  as  if  he  had 
been  talking  to  a  wayward  child. 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  not  tired  enough  of  those  things  and 
this  world?"  she  cried  passionately.  "Why  do  you  speak  to 
jne  as  if  I  were  a  baby  that  had  never  cut  open  the  parchment 
of  its  toy-drum  to  find  out  where  the  noise  came  from?  I 
asked  you  a  question  just  now.  Had  you  nothing  to  regret  in 
your  South-Sea  islands?" 

"  Nothing,  except  my  own  worldly  nature,  which  still  clung 
to  the  things  of  earth." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously,  wondering  whether  she  was  one 
of  those  things  of  earth  for  which  his  weak  soul  had  hankered. 
His  perfect  coolness  was  beyond  measure  exasperating  to  her. 
It  was  not  that  she  for  one  moment  ignored  the  fact  that  for 
those  two  there  could  be  no  such  thing  as  friendship — no  swee< 
communion  of  soul  with  soul,  secure  from  all  peril  of  earthly 
passion,  in  that  calm  region  where  love  has  never  entered.  She 
knew  that  this  accidental  meeting  was  a  thing  not  to  be  repeated 
without  hazard  to  her  peace  in  this  world  and  the  next,  or  to 
such  poor  semblance  of  peace  as  was  still  hers.  Yet  she  was 
angry  with  him  for  his  placid  smile,  his  friendly  anxiety  for  her 
welfare,  the  quiet  tones  that  had  never  faltered  since  he  first 
erected  her,  the  grave  eyes  that  looked  at  her  with  such  passion- 
less kindliness.  If  he  had  said  to  her,  "  Elizabeth,  I  have 
never  ceased  to  love  you — we  must  meet  no  more  upon  this 
earth  " — she  would  have  been  content ;  but,  as  it  was,  she  stood 
looking  moodily  down  at  the  angry  river,  dyed  red  with  the 
clay  from  its  rugged  banks,  telling  herself  over  and  over 
again  that  he  had  never  loved  her,  that  he  was  altogether 
adamant. 

Being  a  woman,  and  not  a  woman  strong  in  the  power  of 
Belf-goyernment,  she  could  not  long  devour  her  heart  iu  silence. 


316  Strangers  and  PilgHms, 

The  wayward  reckless  spirit  eought  a  relief  in  words,  howevej 
foolish. 

"  You  do  not  even  ask  me  if  I  am  happy,"  she  said,  "  or  how 
I  prospered  after  your  desertion  of  me." 

"Desertion!"  he  echoed,  with  a  short  laugh;  "women  have 
a  curious  way  of  misstating  facts.  My  desertion  of  you !  De- 
sertion is  a  good  word.  Forgive  me  for  not  having  inquired 
after  your  happiness,  Lady  Paulyn.  I  had  a  right  to  suppose 
that  you  were  as  happy  as  every  woman  ought  to  be  who  has 
deliberately  chosen  her  own  lot  in  life.  I  trust  the  choice  in 
your  case  was  a  fortunate  one." 

"  I  had  no  choice,"  she  answered,  in  a  dull  despairing  tone, 
looking  at  the  river,  not  daring  to  look  at  him.  "  I  had  no 
choice.  I  went  the  way  Fate  drifted  me,  as  helpless  or  as  in- 
different as  that  tangle  of  weeds  yonder,  carried  headlong  down 
the  stream.  I  was  miserable  at  home  with  my  sisters;  so, 
thinking  any  kind  of  life  must  be  better  than  the  life  I  led  with 
them,  I  married.  I  have  no  right  to  complain  of  my  marriage; 
it  has  given  me  all  the  things  I  used  to  fancy  I  cared  about, 
long  ago,  when  I  was  a  vain  silly  girl;  nor  have  I  any  right  to 
complain  of  my  husband,  for  he  has  been  much  better  to  me 
than  I  have  ever  been  to  him." 

"  Why  do  you  palter  with  the  truth  ?"  he  cried  sternly,  turn- 
ing upon  her  with  an  angrier  look  than  she  had  seen  in  his 
face,  even  on  the  day  when  they  parted.  "  "VVhy  do  you  try  to 
disguise  plain  facts,  and  to  deceive  me,  even  now  ?  What  plea- 
sure can  it  give  you  to  fool  me  just  once  more  ?  What  do  you 
mean  by  being  drifted  into  your  marriage,  or  why  pretend  that 
you  married  Lord  Paulyn  because  you  were  miserable  at  home  ? 
You  were  engaged  to  him  before  you  left  your  aunt's  house. 
You  were  married  to  him  as  soon  as  my  back  was  turned." 

"  That  is  false !"  cried  Elizabeth.  "  I  was  not  engaged  to  him 
till  you  had  left  England." 

"  What,  he  was  not  your  accepted  lover  when  I  saw  you  in 
Eaton-place — when  I  showed  you  that  newspaper?" 

"  He  was  not.  The  newspaper  and  you  were  both  wrong.  I 
had  refused  Lord  Paulyn  twice.  The  last  rejection  took  place 
the  night  before  that  morning,  the  night  of  the  private  theatri- 
cals at  the  Rancho." 

She  held  her  head  high  now,  the  sweet  lips  curved  in  a  scorn- 
ful smile,  proud  of  her  folly — proud,  even  though  she  had 
wrecked  her  own  life,  and  had  perchance  shadowed  his,  by  that 
very  foolishness. 

"  And  you  suffered  me  to  think  you  the  basest  of  women — to 
surrender  that  which  was  dearer  to  me  than  my  very  life — only 
because  you  were  too  proud  to  tell  me  the  truth  1 " 

"  Would  you  have  believed  if  I  had  told  you  ?     I  don't  think 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims,  317 

yon  would.  You  had  judged  me  beforehand.  You  would 
iiardly  let  me  speak.  You  believed  a  printed  lie  rather  than 
my  piteous  looks — the  love  that  had  almost  offered  itself  to  you 
unasked  that  night  at  Hawleigh.  You  could  think  that  a 
woman  who  loved  you  like  that  would  change  in  two  little 
months — could  be  tempted  away  from  you  by  the  love  cf  rank 
and  money.  I  never  thought  that  you  could  leave  me  Uke  that. 
I  was  sure  that  you  would  come  back  to  me.  O  God,  how  I 
waited  and  watched  for  your  coming !  how  I  hated  those  fine 
sunshiny  rooms  in  Eaton-place  which  saw  my  misery !  And 
then  when  I  went  back  to  Hawleigh,  thinking  I  might  see  j^u 
again,  perhaps,  and  you  might  forgive  me,  I  was  just  in  time 
to  hear  your  farewell  sermon.  And  when  I  went  to  your 
lodgings  the  next  morning,  to  beg  for  your  forgiveness — yes,  I 
wanted  you  to  forgive  me  before  you  left  us  all  for  ever — I  waa 
just  too  late  to  see  you.  Fate  was  adverse  once  more.  The 
train  had  carried  you  away." 

'  You  went  to  my  lodgings  !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  breathless 
intensity.  "  You  would  have  asked  me  to  forgive  you,  me,  the 
blind  besotted  fool  who  had  been  duped  by  his  own  passion ! 
You  loved  me  well  enough  to  have  done  that,  Ehzabeth  !  " 

"  I  would  have  kissed  the  dust  at  your  feet.  There  is  no 
humiliation  I  could  have  deemed  too  great  if  I  could  have  only 
won  your  forgiveness;  not  won  your  love  back  again — the  hope 
of  that  had  no  place  in  my  heart." 

"  My  love  !  "  he  said,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "  When  did  that 
ever  cease  to  be  yours  ?  " 

Her  whole  face  changed  as  he  spoke,  glorified  by  the  great- 
ness of  her  joy.  He  had  loved  her  once — and  that  once  had 
been  for  ever ! 

But  not  long  did  passion  hold  Malcolm  Forde  in  its  thrall. 
He  felt  the  foolishness  of  his  words  so  soon  as  they  had  been 
uttered. 

"  It  is  worse  than  idle  to  speak  of  these  things  now,"  he 
said.  "  If  I  wronged  you  by  a  groundless  accusation,  you 
wronged  me  still  more  deeply  by  withholding  the  truth.  That 
day  changed  the  colour  of  our  lives.  Of  my  life  I  can  only  say 
that  it  is  the  life  to  which  I  had  long  aspired,  which  I  would 
have  sacrificed  for  no  lesser  reason  than  my  love  for  you.  It 
has  fully  satisfied  my  desires.  I  will  not  say  there  have  beeu 
no  thorns  in  my  path,  only  that  it  is  a  path  from  which  no 
earthly  temptation  could  now  withdraw  me.  For  yourself, 
Lady  Paulyn,  I  can  only  trust — as  I  shall  pray  iu  many  a 
prayer  in  the  days  to  come,  when  we  two  shall  be  on  oj^posita 
eides  of  the  world — that  your  Hfe  may  be  filled  with  all  the 
blessings  which  Heaven  reserves  for  those  who  strive  to  maka 
|iie  best  use  of  earthly  advantages." 


818  Strangers  and  Pilgrim*. 

"You  mean  that  having  made  a  wretched  mistake  in  my 
marriage,  and  having  lost  the  child  who  made  life  bright  fof 
me,  I  am  to  console  myself  by  church-going  and  district- 
visiting,  and  by  seeing  my  name  in  the  subscription  Hst  of  every 
charity." 

"  The  field  is  very  wide,"  he  said,  every  trace  of  passion  gone 
from  voice  and  manner.  "  You  need  not  be  restricted  to  a  con- 
ventional role.  There  are  innumerable  modes  of  helping  one's 
fellow-creatures,  and  no  one  need  despair  of  originaUty  in  well- 
doing." 

"  It  is  not  in  me,"  she  answered  wearily.  "  And  if  I  were 
ever  so  inchned  to  help  my  fellow-creatures,  my  opportunities 
henceforward  are  likely  to  be  limited.  I  have  been  guilty  of 
culpable  extravagance ;  it  is  so  difficult  to  calculate  the  expense 
of  what  one  does  in  society,  and  I  never  was  good  at  mental 
arithmetic.  In  plain  words,  I  have  made  my  husband  angry  by 
the  amount  of  my  bills,  and  I  shall  henceforward  have  very 
httle  money  at  my  command." 

"  I  should  have  supposed  that  Lady  Paulyn's  pin-money 
would  be  ample  fund  for  benevolence,  which  need  not  always 
be  costly,"  said  Mr.  Forde,  conceiving  this  self-abasement  to  be 
merely  a  mode  of  excusing  her  disinclination  for  a  fife  of  useful- 
ness. 

"  I  have  no  pin-money,"  she  answered  carelessly.  "  I  refused  to 
have  a  settlement.  "When  a  woman  marries  as  much  above  her 
as  I  did,  there  is  always  an  idea  of  sale  and  barter.  I  would 
not  have  the  price  set  down  in  the  bond." 

"  Your  husband  will  no  doubt  remember  that  generous  refusal 
when  he  has  recovered  from  any  vexation  your  unthinking 
extravagance  may  have  caused  him." 

"  I  don't  know.  We  have  a  knack  of  saying  disagreeable 
things  to  each  other.  I  have  not  much  indulgence  to  expect 
from  him.    Do  you  ever  pass  our  house  at  Slogh-na-Dyack  ?  " 

"  Sometimes." 

"  Sometimes,"  she  thought,  with  exceeding  bitterness ;  and  he 
had  never  been  tempted  to  cross  the  threshold,  never  con- 
strained, in  his  own  despite,  as  passion  would  constrain  a  man 
who  could  feel,  to  enter  the  house  in  which  she  lived,  to  see  with 
his  own  eyes  whether  she  was  happy  or  miserable. 

"And  yet  he  talks  of  having  never  ceased  to  love  me,"  she 
said  to  herself. 

Then  resuming  her  old  light  tone — the  tone  that  had  so  often 
jarred  upon  his  ear  in  the  bygone  time — she  said, 

"  When  next  you  pass  Slogh-na-Dyack,  think  of  me  as  a 
prisoner  inside  those  high  white  walls,  a  prisoner  looking  out  at 
the  water,  and  envying  the  white-sailed  ships  that  are  sailing 
round  Cantyre,  the  sea-gulls  flying  over  the  hills.     It  is  a  very 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  319 

fine  lionse,  and  I  have  everything  in  it  that  a  reasonable  woman 
could  desire ;  but  I  feel  that  it  is  my  prison,  somehow." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Lord  Paulyn  has  brought  me  here  to  retrench.  He  is  a 
millionaire,  I  believe,  but  millionaires  are  not  fond  of  spending 
money,  and,  as  I  told  you  just  now,  I  have  spent  his  with  both 
hands.  Pray  don't  think  that  I  am  complaining,  only — only, 
when  you  go  past  my  house,  think  of  me  as  a  solitary  pi-isoner 
within  its  walls,  and  pity  me  if  you  can." 

The  assumed  lightness  was  all  gone  now,  and  in  its  stead 
came  piteous  tones  of  appeal. 

'*  Pity  you  !  "  he  cried  passionately.  "  Are  you  trying  to  find 
out  the  quickest  way  to  break  my  heart  ?  You  had  always  a 
knack  at  playing  with  hearts,  Elizabeth ;  do  not  speak  to  me 
any  more.  Pity  me.  I  am  weaker  than  water.  Why  do  you 
not  tell  me  that  you  are  happy — that  the  world,  and  the  plea- 
sures and  triumphs  of  the  world,  are  all-sufficient  for  you? 
Why  do  you  wish  to  distract  my  soul  by  these  suggestions  of 
misery  ?  And  to-night,  perhaps,  amongst  your  friends,  you  will 
be  all  life  and  brightness — a  creature  of  smiles  and  sunshine — 
as  you  were  in  the  play  that  night." 

"  I  can  act  still,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  laugh.  "  But  it  is 
too  much  trouble  to  do  that  at  Slogh-na-Dyack.  I  have  no 
friends  there ;  it  is  a  hermitage,  without  the  peace  of  mind  that 
can  make  a  hermitage  pleasant.  Don't  look  at  me  so  sorrow- 
fully. I  shall  go  back  to  London,  I  daresay,  in  the  spring,  if  I 
am  good,  and  shall  give  parties,  and  spend  more  money,  while 
you  are  among  your  Fiji  islanders." 

Malcolm  Forde  answered  nothing,  but  stood  with  a  gloomy 
brow  staring  at  the  rushing  water.  What  a  shallow  nature  it 
seemed,  this  soul  of  the  girl  he  had  loved  once  and  for  ever ; 
what  a  childish  perversity  and  capriciousness,  and  yet  what 
dreary  suggestions  there  were  in  all  her  talk  of  a  depth  of  misery 
lurking  below  this  seeming  lightness  !  Ah,  what  torture  to  part 
from  her  thus,  knowing  nothing  of  what  her  life  was  like  in  the 
present,  what  it  might  become  in  the  future ;  knowing  only  that 
it  was  nob  peace,  and  that  all  those  loftier  hopes  and  nobler 
dreams  which  had  sustained  him  in  the  darkest  hours  of  his 
existence  were  to  her  a  dead  letter ! 

They  kept  silence,  both  watching  the  dark  and  turbid  river, 
clmost  as  if  it  had  been  that  river  in  the  under  world  by  which 
they  must  each  stand  one  day,  waiting  for  the  grim  ferryman. 
But  in  a  little  while  the  somid  of  wheels  mingled  with  the  noise 
of  the  water — wheels  and  horses'  feet  approaching  swiftly  on 
the  wet  mountain  road. 

"Thank  God!"  said  Mr.  Forde;  "the  carriage  at  last. 
How  you  shiver  !     I  must  beg  of  you  to  remember  what  I  have 


320  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

said  al3ont  taking  prompt  means  to  ward  off  the  cold,  and  it 
would  be  as  well  to  take  some  precautionary  steps  against  in- 
fection :  not  that  I  fear  any  danger  from  that,"  he  added  hope- 
fully. Then,  looking  at  her  with  undisguised  tenderness — for 
was  it  not,  as  he  believed,  his  very  last  look  ? — "  Elizabeth,  I 
shall  pray  for  you  all  my  life.  If  the  prayers  of  any  other  than 
yourself  can  give  yoa  peace  and  good  thoughts  and  a  happy 
life,  you  will  never  lack  those  blessings.     Good-bye." 

He  held  her  hand  for  a  little  while,  looking  at  her  with  those 
dark  searching  eyes  which  she  had  feared  even  before  she  loved 
him;  looking  through  her  very  soul,  trying  to  pierce  the  thin 
veil  of  pretence,  to  fathom  the  mystery  within.  But  even  at 
the  last  she  was  a  mystery  too  deep  for  his  plummet-line. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  and  not  one  word  more,  remembering 
that  other  parting,  when,  if  speech  could  have  come  out  of  her 
stubborn  lips,  she  might  have  kept  him  all  her  life.  What 
could  she  say  now,  except  good-bye  ? 

He  put  her  into  the  dainty  little  brougham,  wrapped  her  in 
the  soft  folds  of  a  fur-lined  carriage-rug,  gave  the  coachman  strict 
injunctions  to  drive  home  as  fast  as  his  horses  would  safely 
carry  him,  and  then  stood  bare-headed  at  the  cottage-door 
watching  her  departure. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

**  My  God !  I  never  knew  what  the  maJ  felt 

Before  ;  for  I  am  mad  beyond  all  doubt! 

No,  I  am  dead!     These  putrifying  limbs 

Shut  round  and  sepulchre  the  panting  soul, 

Which  would  burst  forth  into  the  wandering  air. 

What  hideous  thought  was  that  I  had  e'en  now! 

'Tis  gone  ;  and  yet  its  burden  remains  here, 

O'er  these  dull  eyes — upon  this  weary  heart! 

0  world !  0  life  !  0  day  !  0  misery  ! 

****** 

She  is  the  madhouse  nurse  who  tends  on  me. 
It  is  a  piteous  office." 

"WiTETnEK  a  careful  compliance  with  Mr.  Forde's  behest  would 
have  saved  Elizabeth  from  the  evil  consequences  of  that  one 
wet  day,  it  is  impossible  to  say.  She  took  no  precautions ;  she 
was  utterly  reckless  of  her  own  safety,  hating  doctors  and  all 
medical  appliances  with  a  childish  hatred,  and  never  from  her 
childhood  upwards  having  cared  to  take  any  trouble  about  lier- 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  321 

eelf  in  the  way  of  preserving  her  health.  That  health  had  hitherto 
been  a  splendid  inheritance  which  recklessness  could  hardly 
reduce.  She  had  run  wild  in  the  Devonian  woods  wet-fuoted 
and  caring  no  more  for  the  damps  of  morass  or  brooklet  than  a 
young  fawn  ;  she  had  roamed  the  moor  in  the  very  teeth  of  the 
e  ,st  wind,  had  lingered  latest  of  all  the  household  in  the  Vicar- 
age garden  when  the  heavy  night-dews  were  falUng ;  she  had  sat 
up  late  into  the  nights  reading  her  favourite  books,  had  existed 
for  weeks  at  a  time  with  the  least  possible  allowance  of  sleej), 
and  had  hardly  known  what  it  was  to  be  ill. 

"  I  almost  wish  I  could  set  up  a  chronic  headache  like  Diana's," 
she  used  to  say  in  those  days.     "  It  is  so  convenient  occasionally." 

But  after  her  boy's  death  had  come  an  illness  which  concen- 
trated into  nine  long  weeks  of  anguish  more  than  some_  feeble 
souls  suffer  in  a  lifetime  of  weak  murmurings  and  complainings, 
rain-fever,  it  would  have  been  called  most  likely,  had  the  patient 
been  any  one  else  than  Lord  Paulyn's  wife  ;  but  the  specialists, 
who  met  three  times  a  week  in  solemn  conclave  to  discuss  the 
diagnostics  of  the  case,  found  occult  names  for  the  ailments  of 
a  person  of  quality.  That  nameless  fever  of  mind  and  body, 
engendered  of  a  wild  and  desperate  grief,  came  and  passed  away ; 
but  not  without  severely  trying  the  strength  of  the  mind,  which 
had  been  the  greater  sufferer.  The  inexhaustible  riches  of  a 
superb  constitution  saved  the  body,  but  that  weaker  vessel  the 
mind  foundered,  and  at  one  time  was  menaced  with  total  shij)- 
wreck. 

Now  fever  again  took  possession  of  that  lovely  temple — the 
lowest  form  of  contagious  fever — and  rang  its  dismal  changes 
from  gastric  to  typhus,  from  typhus  to  typhoid.  Wet  garments, 
tainted  air,  did  their  fatal  work.  After  a  week  or  so  of  general 
depression,  occasional  shivering  fits,  utter  want  of  appetite,  and 
continued  sleeplessness,  the  fever-fiend  revealed  himself  in  a 
more  definite  form ;  and  the  local  surgeon — resident  five  miles 
from  the  chateau — declared,  with  infinite  hesitation  and  un- 
willingness, that  in  liis  opinion  Lady  Paulyn  was  suffering  from 
a  mild  form — a  very  mild  form,  and  entirely  without  danger — 
of  the  low  fever  that  had  been  hanging  about  the  neighbourhood 
this  year. 

This  declaration  was  made,  in  the  most  cautious  and  concili- 
ating manner,  to  Lady  Paulyn  herself,  in  the  presence  of  Hilda 
Disney  ;  the  disagreeable  fact  disgiiised  with  an  excessive  show 
of  confidence  and  hopefulness  on  the  doctor's  part,  just  as  he 
^^ntrived  to  conceal  the  flavour  of  aloes  or  rhubarb  in  his 
silvered  pills. 

Elizabeth  turned  her  haggard  fever-bright  eyes  to  him  with  a 
Bti'ange  look.  She  had  been  sitting  in  a  moody  attitude  till 
now,  staring  fixedly  at  the  ground. 


822  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

"  I  have  had  fever  before,"  she  said ;  "  and  that  time  my  mind 
went.  I  could  not  believe  it  for  long  afterwards,  but  I  know 
now  that  it  did  go.  I  hope  that  is  not  going  to  happen  to 
me  again." 

"  My  dear  lady," — Elizabeth  shuddered ;  the  specialists,  or  in 
other  words  mad-doctors,  had  always  called  her  "  dear  lady," — • 
"there  is  not  the  smallest  cause  for  such  an  apprehension.  In 
fever  there  is  occasionally  a  shght  delirium,  puiiely  attributable 
to  physieal  causes.  But  I  trust  that  with  care  there  may  bo 
nothing  of  the  kind  in.  your  case." 

"With  care!"  repeated  Ehzabeth.  "  Yes,  I  remember  they 
eaid  that  when  I  was  ill  before.  I  heard  them,  as  I  lay  there 
helpless,  repeating  the  same  words  every  day  like  parrots.  But 
then  I  only  wanted  to  die,  and  to  go  to  my  darling ;  and  I 
don't  know  that  it  matters  much  more  now.  Only  I  don't  want 
to  lose  my  mind,  and  yet  go  on  living.  If  I  am  to  die  young, 
let  me  die  altogether,  not  like  Dean  Swift,  first  a-top." 

The  Scotch  surgeon,  an  eminently  practical  man,  shook  hia 
head  a  little  at  this,  with  a  grave  side-glance  at  Miss  Disney ; 
then  murmured  his  directions:  quiet  —  repose — the  saline 
draughts,  which  he  would  alter  a  little  from  those  of  yesterday 
and  the  day  before — and,  above  all,  care.  It  would  be  as  well  to 
send  to  Glasgow  for  a  professional  nurse,  lest  the  duties  of  the 
sick-room  might  be  beyond  the  scojoe  of  Miss  Disney  or  Lady 
Paulyn's  maid.  This  was  mentioned  in  confidence  to  Hilda 
when  she  and  the  surgeon  had  left  Elizabeth's  room  together. 

"  It  is  not  going  to  be  serious,  I  hope,"  said  Hilda. 

"  I  apprehend  not.  No ;  I  venture  to  think  not.  With  youth, 
and  so  fine  a  constitution — no  organic  disease — I  have  every 
reason  to  imagine  the  fever  will  pass  off  in  a  few  days,  and  a 
complete  restoration  ensue.  But  the  want  of  sleep  and  of  ap- 
petite are  unpleasant  symptoms,  and  her  ladyship's  mind  is 
more  excited  than  I  should  wish.  I  think,  as  it  is  a  case  which 
no  doubt  will  inspire  some  anxiety  in  the  mind  of  Lord  Paulyn, 
and  as  he  is  absent  from  home,  it  might  be  wise  to  fortify  our- 
selves with  a  second  opinion."  This  was  said  with  an  air  of 
proud  humility,  as  who  should  say,  "  I  feel  myself  strong 
enough  to  cope  with  the  diseases  of  a  nation,  but  usage  must 
be  observed,  according  to  the  statute  in  such  case  made  and 
provided ; "  for  medicine  has  its  unwritten  laws,  its  unregistered 
acts  of  an  intangible  parliament.  "  I  should  like  Dr.  Sauchie- 
hall  to  see  Lady  Paulyn." 

"  Pray  telegraph  to  him  at  once,"  said  Hilda  anxiously; 
"  and  I  will  telegraph  to  my  cousin." 

With  this  understanding  they  parted.  The  doctor  to  drive 
his  neat  gig  to  the  little  bathing-place  five  miles  ofi",  whence  he 
could  send  a  telegram  to  Glasgow;  Hilda  to  pace  the  terrace, 


Strangerg  and  JPilf/rinis.  323 

under  a  gray  autumn  sky,  watcliing,  or  seeming  to  watcli,  the 
white  rain  mists  rolling  up  from  the  mountain  crests,  and 
meditating  this  new  turn  in  afi'airs. 

How  Avould  Reginald  take  his  wife's  illness?  They  had 
parted  with  a  palpable  coolness;  on  her  part  indifference, 
smothered  anger  on  his.  Would  all  his  old  selfish  vehement  love 
rush  back  upon  him  with  redoubled  force  if  he  found  his  wife  in 
jeopardy  ?  Such  hours  of  peril,  as  it  were  the  shadow  of  the 
destroyer  lurking  on  the  threshold  of  a  half-opened  door,  are 
apt  to  awaken  dormant  affections;  to  rekindle  passions  that 
seemed  dead  as  death  itself. 

"  I  know  that  he  loves  her  still,"  thought  Hilda.  "  Those 
flashes  of  anger  spring  from  the  same  root  as  tender  looks  and 
Bweet  words :  he  loves  her  still,  with  quite  as  much  real  affec- 
tion, and  as  near  an  approach  to  unselfishness  as  he  is  capable 
of  feeling.  And  if  she  were  to  die — he  would  never  love  any 
one  else;  woiild  marry  again  perhaps,  but  for  money,  no  doubt, 
the  second  time.  And  I — well,  I  should  be  always  in  the  same 
position,  a  miserable  hanger-on,  outside  his  life.  God  give  me 
patience  to  do  my  duty  to  both  of  them ;  to  the  man  who  amused 
a  summer  hohday  by  breaking  my  heart,  and  the  woman  who 
has  usurped  my  place  in  the  world." 

To  communicate  by  telegraph  or  post  with  Lord  Paulyn  waa 
no  easy  matter,  or  there  was  at  least  small  security  that  a  tele- 
gram would  find  him.  His  address  was  fugitive ;  at  Newmar- 
ket to-day,  on  board  his  yacht  in  Southampton  Water,  bound 
for  Havre,  to- morrow.  Hilda  telegraphed  to  Newmarket  and 
Park-lane,  trusting  that  one  of  the  two  messages  might  reach 
him  without  delay.  She  also  wrote  him  a  letter,  addressed  to 
Park-lane,  in  which  she  gave  him  a  careful  account  of  Eliza- 
beth's symptoms,  and  the  medical  man's  remarks  upon  them. 
Having  done  this  she  felt  that  she  had  done  her  duty,  and  could 
abide  the  issue  of  events  with  a  complacent  mind. 

liut  T,  harder  and  more  painful  duty  remained  to  be  done; 
the  patient  had  to  be  watched  and  cared  for,  and  that  task  Miss 
Disney  deemed  herself,  in  a  manner,  bound  to  perform.  A  hor- 
rible restlessness  had  taken  possession  of  EUzabeth.  Weak  as 
ehe  was,  she  wanted  to  roam  from  room  to  room,  out  on  to  the 
lonely  walk  even,  under  the  dull  gray  sky ;  and  Mr.  McKnockie, 
the  local  surgeon,  had  especially  directed  that  she  should  be  kept 
in  perfect  quiet,  and  in  her  own  room — that  she  should  straight- 
way take  to  her  bed,  indeed,  and,  as  jt  were,  prostrate  herself  at 
the  feet  of  the  fever  fiend. 

Against  this  Elizabeth  protested  with  all  her  might,  declaring 
that  she  was  not  ill,  that  she  had  nothing  the  matter  with  her 
but  cold  and  sore-throat,  and  that  Mr.  McKnockie  was  only 
trying  how  long  a  bill  he  could  rim  up  with  his  vapid  tasteless 


S24  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

medicines.  Air,  fresh  air,  was  all  she  required,  she  cned;  and 
ehe  flung  open  the  French  window,  and  went  out  into  the  bal- 
cony, in  spite  of  Hilda. 

"  0  sea,  sea,  sea,"  she  cried,  looking  away  towards  that  open- 
ing in  the  hills  where  the  waters  widened  out  into  ocean,  "  if 
you  would  only  carry  me  away  to  some  new  world,  a  world  of 
dreams  and  shadows,  where  I  should  have  done  with  the  burden 
of  hfe ! " 

Alas,  she  was  only  too  near  that  world  of  dreams  and  sha- 
dows !  Before  nightfall  she  was  delirious,  watched  over  by  hired 
nurses,  a  prostrate  wretch  concerning  whom  the  doctors  Sau- 
chiehall  and  McKnockie  shook  their  heads  almost  despondently. 
Fever  of  mind  and  body  raged  together  with  unabating  violence. 
She  had  entered  the  region  of  dreams  and  shadows ;  and  in  that 
long  delirium,  during  which  all  things  in  the  present  were 
blotted  out,  or  only  seen  dimly  athwart  a  thick  cloud,  her  mind 
went  back  to  the  past.  She  was  a  child  again,  following  the 
windings  of  the  Tabar,  or  losing  herself  in  the  wood  where  the 
anemones  were  like  snow  in  April ;  she  was  a  girl  again,  her 
childish  unspoken  love  for  Malcolm  Forde  ripening  slowly,  like 
a  bud  that  rijaens  to  a  blossom  under  a  gentle  English  sun, 
until  it  bursts  into  bloom  and  beauty,  the  perfect  flower  of 
woman's  heart. 

In  that  drama  of  the  past  which  she  lived  over  again,  there 
were  not  only  scenes  that  had  been,  but  scenes  that  had  not 
been.  With  the  loss  of  sober  reason  and  the  perception  of 
surrounding  things,  invention  was  curiouly  quickened.  Memory, 
which  was  beyond  measure  vivid,  ran  a  race  with  imagination. 
That  brief  sjjan  of  her  springtide  courtship,  the  few  short 
weeks  of  her  engagement  to  ]\Ialcolm  Forde,  were  spun  out  by 
innumerable  fancies  of  the  distracted  brain.  She  recalled 
walks  that  they  had  never  walked,  long  wanderings  over  the 
moor  ;  wild  poetic  talk  ;  the  converse  of  spirits  which  had  issued 
forth  from  the  doors  of  this  solid  world  into  a  vast  cloudland,  a 
place  of  dim  unfinished  thoughts  and  broken  fancies. 

It  was  distracting  to  hear  her  talk  of  these  things;  it  was  a 
madness  almost  maddening  to  watch  or  listen  to.  The  hired 
nurses  made  light  enough  of  the  business ;  haled  their  patient 
about  with  their  coarse  hands,  tied  her  even  with  bonds  when 
she  was  too  restless  for  their  endurance ;  ate,  drank,  slejit,  and 
regoiced,  while  she  lay  there  in  her  dream-world,  entreating 
Malcolm  to  loosen  those  cruel  cords,  to  take  her  away  out  of 
the  stifling  atmosphere  that  was  killing  her. 

Miss  Disney  made  a  point  of  spending  some  hours  of  the  day 
or  night  in  the  sick-room;  and  in  these  hours  Elizabeth  fared 
a  little  better  than  at  other  times.  The  tying  process  was  at 
any  rate  not  attempted  in  Hilda's  presence.     But  consciousness 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  325 

of  all  immediate  events  being  in  abeyance,  the  "hapless  patient 
knew  not  that  she  was  being  protected  by  this  quiet  figure  in  a 
black-silk  gown,  which  sat  statue-like  by  the  hearth,  and  she  was 
exceedingly  tormented  by  the  sight  of  it.  In  her  more  despe- 
rate moods  she  even  accused  Miss  Disney  of  keeping  her  a 
prisoner  in  that  horrible  room,  and  separating  her  from  her 
phghted  lover.  .    . 

Here  was  one  of  the  mental  obliquities  which  made  a  part  of 
her  disorder.  Her  husband  and  her  married  life,  even  her  lost 
child,  were  forgotten ;  were  as  things  that  had  never  been.  No- 
thing stood  between  her  and  her  first  lover,  except  the  bondage 
that  kept  her  to  that  hated  room.  He  was  at  all  times  close  at 
hand,  waiting  for  her,  calling  to  her  even,  only  she  could  not  go 
to  him.  Every  creature  who  held  her  back  from_  him  was  her 
enemy ;  and  chief  among  these,  the  despotic  mistress  of  her 
prison-house,  the  arbiter  of  her  fate,  was  Hilda  Disney. 

Matters  were  in  this  state  when  Lord  Paulyn  came  back  to 
Slogh-na-Dyack,  tardily  apprised  of  his  wife's  illness  by  the 
telegrams,  which  had  followed  him  from  stage  to  stage  of  his 
wandering  existence.  He  found  the  doctors  at  sea,  only  able  to 
give  stately  utterance  to  the  feeblest  opinions,  but  by  a  curious 
fatality  issuing  orders  which  in  every  minutest  detail  were 
opposed  to  the  desires  of  the  patient. 

In  her  more  lucid  intervals  she  had  languished  for  the  sight 
of  old  faces,  the  sound  of  old  voices.  She  had  entreated  them 
to  send  for  the  old  servant  who  had  nursed  her,  the  old  Vicarage 
servant  who  had  been  part-and-parcel  of  her  home  in  the  happy 
childish  days  before  her  mother's  death,  before  she  had  begun  to 
be  proud  of  her  beauty  and  to  grow  indifferent  to  the  common- 
place present  in  selfish  dreams  of  a  much  brighter  future.  She 
epoke  of  the  woman  by  her  name,  remembering  all  about  her 
with  a  singular  precision,  at  which  the  doctors  looked  at  each 
other,  and  wondered ;  "  Memory  extraordinarily  clear,"_  they 
remarked,  like  heaven-gifted  seers  divining  a  fact  which  it  was 
not  within  the  power  of  common  perception  to  discover. 

Then  came  a  longing  for  her  sisters,  above  all  for  Blanche, 
the  young  frivolous  creature  who  had  loved  her  better  than  she 
had  ever  loved  in  return.  Piteonsly,  in  her  most  reasonable 
moments,  she  implored  that  Blanche  might  be  summoned. 

"  She  would  amuse  me,"  she  said,  "and  I  want  so  much  to  be 
amused ;  all  is  so  dull  here,  such  an  awful  quiet,  hke  a  house 
tinder  a  spelL  For  Heaven's  sake,  if  there  is  any  one  in  this 
place  who  loves  me,  or  pities  me,  let  them  send  for  my  sister 
Blanche." 

Miss  Disney,  faithful  to  her  duties  iu  a  semi-mechanical  waj, 
informed  ^he  medical  men  of  this  wish. 

••Would  it  not  be  well  to  send  for  Miss  Luttrell?" 


326  Strangers  and  Filgrhm, 

No,  they  said.  Isolation — perfect  isolation — offered  the  only 
chance  of  recovery.  Lady  Paulyn  was  to  see  no  one  except  the 
persons  who  nursed  her.  No  old  I'amiliar  faces — inspiring 
violent  emotions,  agitating  thoughts — were  to  approach  her. 
Even_  Miss  Disney,  who  might  be  permitted  to  take  her  turn 
occasionally  in  the  patient's  room,  must  he  careful  not  to  talk  to 
her — not  to  encourage  anything  like  conversation.  Soothing 
silence  must  pervade  the  chamber — sepulchral  as  the  room 
where  the  mighty  dead  he  in  state.  When  Lord  Paulyn  came, 
he  mightsee  his  wife,  but  with  such  precautions  as  must  reduce 
any  ineeting  between  them  to  a  nullity.  The  dismal  monotony 
of  a  sick-room  was  to  be  Ehzabeth's  cure ;  the  hard  cruel  visages 
of  hireling  nurses  were  to  woo  her  back  to  reason  and  jjeace : 
BO  said  Dr.  Sauchiehall,  Mr.  McKnockie,  as  in  duty  bound. 
Agreeing. 

Lord  Paulyn  came  at  a  time  when  mere  bodily  illness  had 
been  well-nigh  subjugated,  and  that  nicer  mechanism,  the  mind, 
alone  remained  out  of  gear.  He  was  allowed  to  stand  for  a  few 
minutes  in  the  shadow  of  the  curtains  that  draped  his  wife's 
bed;  and  having  the  misfortune  to  come  in  an  unlucky  hour, 
heard  her  rave  about  her  first  lover,  and  upbraid  the  tyrants 
who  had  severed  them.  He  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  left  the 
room  without  a  word ;  nor  did  he  enter  again  until,  upon  a 
terrible  occasion,  some  weeks  later,  when  the  malady  had  in- 
creased—even under  those  favourable  circumstances  of  utter 
isolation  and  the  care  of  hirehng  nurses — and  he  was  summoned 
to  his  wife's  room  to  prevent  her  flinging  herself  out  of  the 
window  by  the  sheer  force  of  his  strong  arm. 

She  was  clinging  to  the  long  French  window  when  he  went 
into  the  room — an  awful  white-robed  figure  with  streaming  hair 
and  flashing  passionate  eyes,  the  two  nurses  trying  to  drag  her 
back,  but  vainly  striving  against  the  unnatural  strength  that 
■»vaits  upon  a  mind  distraught. 

•'  Why  do  you  keep  me  back  from  him  ?  "  she  cried.  "  He  is 
down  yonder  by  the  water  waiting  for  me,  as  he  has  waited 
always.  I  heard  his  voice  just  now.  You  shall  not  keep  me 
back.  Do  you  think  lam  afraid  of  the  danger?  At  the  worst 
it  is  only  death.     Let  me  go  ?  " 

Lord  Paulyn's  strong  arm  thrust  the  nurses  aside,  grasped 
the  frail  figure,  whose  convulsive  force  was  strangled  in  that 
muscular  grip.  She  struggled  with  him,  and  was  hurt  in  the 
struggle — hurt  by  the  grasp  of  that  broad  hand,  which  seemed 
so  brutal  in  its  strength.  She  looked  at  him  with  her  wild 
fiever-bright  eyes. 

"  I  know  you  now,"  she  said ;  "  you  are  my  husband.  The 
other  was  a  sweet  sad  dream.    You  arc  the  bitter  reality  ! " 

He  liung  her  into  the  arms  of  the  head  nurse — a  virago  six 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  327 

feet  high.  "  If  you  cannot  take  better  care  of  3  our  patient,  I 
must  have  her  put  where  they  will  know  how  to  look  after  her 
without  boring  me,"  he  said ;  and  left  the  room  without  another 
look  at  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  loved.  There  are  some 
flames  that  burn  themselves  out  very  soon,  the  fierce  love  of 
selfish  souls  among  them.  The  warmth  of  Lord  Paulyn'w 
aftection  for  his  wife  had  long  been  on  the  wane.  Her  extra- 
vagances had  tried  his  temper,  touching  him  deeply  where  he 
was  most  susceptible,  in  his  love  of  money.  Her  illness  had 
annoyed  him,  for  he  detested  the  fuss  and  trouble  of  domestic 
afiliction.  This  second  calamity  struck  a  final  blow  to  his  self- 
love,  with  which  was  bound  up  whatever  yet  remained  of 
that  other  love.  That  her  wandering  mind  should  set  up  "that 
parson  fellow"  in  his  rightful  place — should  erase  him,  Reginald 
Paulyn,  from  the  story  of  her  life — harking  back  to  that  old 
foolish  sentimental  story  of  her  girlhood,  was  too  deep  an  ofience. 

He  sat  by  his  lonely  hearth,  and  brooded  over  his  wrongs — his 
wife's  base  ingratitude,  his  childlessness — hardly  daring  to  look 
forward  to  the  future,  in  which  he  saw  the  creature  he  had  once 
loved  menaced  with  the  direst  affliction  humanity  can  suffer. 
He  summoned  the  mad-doctors — the  men  who  had  taken  out  a 
kind  of  patent  for  the  manipulation  of  the  distraught  mind — 
the  men  who  had  called  Elizabeth  "  dear  lady,"  a  year  ago,  in 
Park-lane.  They  came,  and  agreed  in  polite  language,  which 
shirked  the  actual  word,  that  Lady  Paulyn  was  very  mad;  they 
feared  hopelessly,  permanently  mad.  Nature,  of  course,  had 
vast  resources,  they  added,  sagely  ]n-oviding  for  the  event  of  her 
recovery — there  was  no  knowing  what  heahng  balm  she  might 
ultimately  produce  from  her  inexhaustible  storehouse — but  in 
the  meantime  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  main  fact,  that  her 
ladyship  was  suff'ering  from  acute  mania,  and  must  be  placed 
tinder  fitting  restraint. 

There  was  a  little  discussion  as  to  which  of  the  doctors  should 
have  the  privilege  of  ministering  to  this  amiable  sufferer.  Oue 
had  a  charming  place — an  old-fashioned  mansion  of  the  Grange 
order  in  Surrey ;  the  other  a  handsome  establishment  on  the 
north  side  of  London.  They  debated  this  little  matter  between 
themselves,  hke  pohte  vultures  haggling  about  a  piece  of  carrion, 
perhaps  drew  lots  for  the  patient,  and  finally  arranged  every* 
thing  with  an  air  of  agreeable  cordiality.  The  physician  whose 
house  was  in  the  north  had  won  the  day. 

"  You  must  contrive  to  get  me  through  any  formalities  that 
may  be  necessary  as  easily  as  you  can,"  said  Lord  Paulyn, 
"  It's  a  horrible  "business,  and  tiio  sooner  it's  over  the  better. 
Poor  thing!  She  was  the  loveliest  woman  in  England,  bar 
none,  when  I  married  hor.  1  fool  aa  if  we  were  committing  « 
murder." 


328  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

"  Be  assured,  my  dear  sir,  that  tlie  dear  lady  could  not  be 
more  happily  placed  than  with  our  good  friend  Dr.  Cameron," 
said  Ur.  Turnam,  the  gentleman  who  had  resigned  the  prey  to 
his  brother  patentee.  "  If  skill  and  care  can  restore  her,  rely 
upon  it  they  will  not  be  wanting." 

The  Viscount  sighed,  and  went  back  to  his  solitary  smoking- 
room,  breathing  muttered  curses  against  destiny.  She  had 
worn  out  his  love ;  but  to  think  of  her  hauded  over  to  this  doctor 
— consigned,  perhaps,  to  a  life-long  imprisonment — that  waa 
hard.  What  should  he  do  with  himself,  when  she  who  had  made 
the  glory  of  his  life  was  walled  up  in  that  living  grave  ?  He  had 
Newmarket  still,  and  his  stables ;  and  at  his  best  he  had  given 
more  of  his  life  to  the  stable  than  to  Bhzabeth.  But  he  felt  not 
the  less  that  his  life  was  broken — that  he  could  never  again  be 
the  man  that  he  had  been;  that  even  the  hoarse  roar  of  the  ring 
and  the  public  when  his  colours  came  to  the  front  in  a  great 
race  would  henceforth  fall  flat  upon  his  ear. 


CHAPTEE  X. 

*'  Yes,  it  was  love,  if  thoughts  of  tenderness 
Tried  in  temptation,  strongest  by  distress, 
Unmov'd  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime. 
And  yet,  0  !  more  than  all!— untir'd  by  time  ; 
Which  naught  remov'd,  nor  menac'd  to  remove— 
If  there  be  love  in  mortals,  this  was  love." 

A  OTiOOTvr  fell  upon  the  spirit  of  Malcolm  Forde  after  that  meet- 
ing in  the  sick  woman's  cottage.  The  thoughts  of  his  old  life. 
his  old  hopes,  bright  dreams  of  union  with  the  woman  he  fondly 
loved,  pleasant  visions  of  a  simple  pastoral  English  life  among 
people  it  would  be  his  happiness  to  render  happy,  a  fair  jirospect 
which  he  had  cherished  for  a  little  while,  only  to  lose  it  by 
and  by  in  bitterness  and  disappointment — the  htoughts  of  these 
things  came  back  to  him  and  took  the  sweetness  out  of  his  plea- 
sant existence,  and  made  all  the  future  barren. 

It  was  hard  to  know  that  he  had  his  own  imiietuosity  to  blame 
for  the  ruin  of  his  earthly  happiness ;  harder  to  be  content  re- 
membering how  he  had  been  permitted  to  realise  that  other 
and  unselfish  dream  of  carrying  light  to  those  that  sat  in  dark- 
ness ;  hard  to  say,  "  Lord,  I  thank  Thee ;  Thou  knowest  best 
what  is  good  for  me;  Thou  hast  given  me  far  more  than  I 
deserye." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  3213 

Not  yet  could  his  spirit  soar  into  this  holy  region  of  perpetual 
peace  ;  a  region  where  sorrows  are  not,  only  mild  chastenings  o! 
a  heavenly  Master,  who  leavens  every  affliction  with  the  leaven 
of  faith  and  hope.  His  thoughts  were  of  the  earth,  earthy.  Hi; 
mind  went  back  to  that  day  in  Eaton-place,  and  he  hated  him- 
Belf  for  his  unreasoning  anger,  for  the  false  pride  which  would  not 
let  him  court  an  explanation  ;  for  his  blind  passion,  which  had 
taken  the  show  of  things  for  their  reality. 

He  thought  of  what  might  have  been  if,  instead  of  casting 
away  this  flower  of  his  life  on  the  first  indignant  impulse  of  his 
jealous  mind,  he  had  sho\vn  a  little  patience,  a  little  tenderness. 
But  he  had  seemed  incapable  of  patience  on  that  odious  day ; 
with  his  own  angry  foot  he  had  kicked  down  the  air-built  castle 
which  it  had  been  so  sweet  to  him  to  raise. 

If  he  had  found  her  happy,  serene  in  the  glory  of  her  high 
position,  secure  in  the  sympathy  and  affection  of  a  worthy  hus- 
band, he  would  not  have  felt  his  own  loss  so  keenly ;  he  could 
have  borne  even  to  know  that  she  had  never  loved  him  better 
tlnin  in  that  luckless  hour  when  he  renounced  her.  But  to  know 
that  her  life  had  been  shipwrecked  by  his  mad  anger — to  look 
into  her  haggard  face,  with  its  sad  mocking  smile,  and  know  that 
she  was  miserable— to  read  the  old  love  in  those  lovely  eyes,  the 
old  love  cherished  always,  confessed  too  late  by  unconscious 
looks  that  pierced  his  very  soul — these  things  were  indeed 
bitter. 

For  a  while  he  forgot  his  profession ;  forgot  what  he  was,  and 
the  work  that  still  remained  for  him  to  do ;  sank  from  his  lofty 
level  of  self- renouncement  to  the  lowest  depths  of  a  too  human 
despair.  If  the  image  of  his  lost  love  had  haunted  him  in  that 
strange  romantic  world  amid  the  waters  of  the  Pacific,  how  much 
more  did  that  sad  shade  pursue  him  now,  when  the  woman  he 
still  loved  was  near  at  hand,  when  from  the  hill-side  which  he 
had  daily  need  to  pass  he  could  see  the  white  walls  of  the  house 
she  had  called  her  prison  ! 

Never  more  might  his  eyes  search  the  secrets  of  that  altered 
face — the  face  which  he  remembered  in  all  the  pride  of  its  girlish 
beauty.  Never  any  more  might  those  two  meet.  To  all  other 
world-weary  souls  he  might  carry  consolation,  might  breathe 
words  of  promise  and  of  hope;  but  not  to  her.  Between  them 
rose  the  barrier  of  a  mighty  love,  unconquered  and  unconquer-  ' 
able. 

He  went  his  quiet  way  with  that  great  sorrow  in  his  heart. 
Had  he  not  carried  almost  as  great  a  sorrow  even  in  the  islands 
of  the  southern  sea?  only  that  he  had  then  regarded  his  loss  as 
inevitable,  while  he  now  lamented  it  as  the  wretched  fruit  of  hia 
ftwn  fatuity.  He  went  his  quiet  way  and  did  the  little  there  was 
to  be  done  in  that  scantily-peopled  district,  visited  the  sick. 


330  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

comforted  the  dying ;  but  the  work  he  did  just  now  was  done  in 
a  semi-mechanical  way,  for  his  heart  was  elsewhither. 

It  would  have  been  a  relief  to  him  if  he  could  only  have  heard 
of  her ;  if  there  had  been  any  one  who  could  tell  him  how  she 
fared.  He  looked  at  the  white  walls,  the  conical  towers,  long- 
ingly, yet  would  not  go  near  them.  To  enter  there  would  be  to 
enter  the  gates  of  hell.  But  he  would  have  risked  much  to  hear 
of  her. 

His  eyes  searched  the  little  chapel  at  every  service,  but  saw 
her  not.  Yet  this  might  augur  nothing  except  that  she  instinc- 
tively avoided  him,  with  an  avoidance  he  must  needs  approve. 

Weeks  passed,  and  he  heard  nothing;  and  that  mountain 
scene  seemed  strangely  blank  to  him,  as  if  that  one  figure,  met 
only  once,  had  filled  the  whole  landscape.  Then  came  a  day  on 
which  duty  took  him  near  Slogh-na-Dyack.  He  went  to  see  a 
sick  child  in  a  cottage  within  half-a-mile  of  the  chateau  ;  and 
here,  a»lmost  by  accident,  he  first  heard  of  Lady  Paulyn's  illness- 
He  had  asked  the  boy's  mother  if  she  had  everything  necessary 
for  him ;  everything  the  doctor  had  ordered.  Yes,  she  told  him, 
tliey  got  everything  from  the  big  house  where  the  poor  lady  was 
BO  ill. 

He  had  been  bending  tenderly  over  the  fever-stricken  child, 
but  he  looked  suddenly  upward  at  these  words. 

"  What  house  ?  what  lady  ?  "  he  asked  quickly. 

"  The  house  with  the  peaky  lums,"  the  woman  answered. 
*'  Lady  Paulyn,  who  took  the  fever,  and  is  lying  ill  with  it  still ; 
near  death,  some  folks  say." 

He  laid  the  sick  boy  gently  down  upon  his  pillow,  and  then 
questioned  the  woman  closely.  She  could  tell  him  no  more  than 
she  had  told  him  in  that  one  sentence.  The  lady  at  Slogh-na- 
Dyack  had  been  dangerously  ill ;  the  doctors  came  there  every 
day :  a  doctor  from  Glasgow,  and  another  doctor  from  Ellens- 
bridge.  Some  said  she  was  dying ;  but  she  had  lain  sick  so  long, 
and  hadn't  died,  so  there  was  hopes  of  her  getting  well.  The 
fever  had  been  quicker  with  poor  bodies  like  hersen.  It  was  a 
good  many  weeks  now  since  Lady  Paulyn  had  been  took. 

What  could  he  do?  He  left  the  cottage,  and  walked 
straight  to  Slogh-na-Dyack,  with  no  definite  idea  as  to  what 
he  should  do,  only  that  he  would  at  least  discover  for  himself 
how  far  the  woman  at  the  cottage  had  been  right.  Those 
people  always  exaggerate;  pick  up  wild  versions  of  common 
facts.  Elizabeth  might  have  been  ill,  perhaps,  but  not 
dangerously.  He  tried  to  persuade  himself  this  as  he  walked 
Bwittly  along  the  misty  road. 

He  did  not  stop  to  consider  his  right,  or  want  of  right, 
to  approach  her.  Such  an  hour  as  this  made  an  end  to  all 
Buch  questions.     If  she  were  dying,  it  was  his  duty  to  be  near 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  331 

her;  to  sustain  that  poor  weak  soul,  of  whose  mystery  he 
knew  more  than  any  other  man  on  earth.  By  his  right  aa 
a  minister  of  God's  word  and  her  dead  father's  friend,  he  would 
claim  the  privilege  of  being  near  her  at  the  last  dark  hour. 

The  land  in  front  of  the  chateau  looked  gray  and  gloomy  in 
the  twilight,  the  darkness  only  broken  by  the  red  light  of  a 
wood  fire  in  the  hall.  A  pompous  butler,  imported  from  Park- 
lane,  and  sorely  averse  to  this  Northern  establishment,  was 
basking  in  a  Glastonbury  chair  before  the  cavernous  fireplace, 
yesterday's  Times  lying  across  his  knees,  to-day's  Scotsman 
and  Edinburgh  Daily  Review  crumpled  into  the  corner  of  the 
chair;  the  seneschal  having  dropped  comfortably  off  to  sleep 
after  exhausting  the  news  of  the  day. 

Disturbed  by  the  entrance  of  Malcolm  Forde,  this  function- 
ary rose  from  his  slumbers,  and  imperiously  commanded  an 
underUng  to  light  the  gas,  "  which  is  about  the  honly  con- 
venience we  'av  in  this  detestable  barracks  of  a  place,"  he 
was  wont  to  say,  "  and  'av  to  make  it  ourselves  in  the 
kitchen-garding,  at  the  risk  of  being  blowed  out  of  our  beds." 

Questioned  by  Mr.  Forde,  this  personage  affirmed  that  Lady 
Paulyn  was  ill,  very  ill ;  but  not  in  any  danger.  She  had  been 
in  danger  three  weeks  ago,  when  the  fever  was  at  its  height ; 
but  there  was  no  danger  now. 

"  Yet  you  say  that  she  \a  still  very  ill." 

"  Very  ill,  sir ;  leastways,  she  keeps  her  own  room ;  but  is, 
I  believe,  progressing  towards  convoluscence.  Would  you  wish 
to  see  Miss  Disney,  sir  ?  Lord  Paulyn  have  gone  to  Hinvernesa 
for  a  few  days'  deer  stalking,  but  Miss  Disney  is  at  home." 

"No;  if  you  can  assure  me  that  Lady  Paulyn  is  out  of 
danger,  I  need  not  trouble  Miss  Disney.  Bat  in  the  event  of 
danger,  I  should  be  very  glad  if  that  lady  would  send  for  me. 
You  can  give  her  my  card.  I  am  an  old  friend  of  Lady 
Paulyn's  family." 

He  gave  the  butler  his  card,  and  went  away  relieved,  but  still 
uneasy. 

How  gloomy  the  house  looked !  The  dark  oak  staircase, 
with  its  mediaeval  newels;  the  Scottish  lion  rampant,  sup- 
porting the  shield  of  the  knife-powder  manufacturer,  whose 
conventional  quarterings  Lord  Paulyn  had  not  taken  the 
trouble  to  efi'ace;  the  vaulted  roof,  with  its  bosses  and  corbels 
in  carton  pierre,  and  gloomy  as  the  ancient  woodwook  from 
which  they  had  been  modelled ;  the  black  and  white  marble 
lloor,  with  skins  of  savage  beasts  laid  here  and  there ;  the  suits 
of  mail  glimmering  in  the  firelight,  the  underling  not  yet 
having  brought  his  taper :  a  dismal  Udolpho-likc  j^laoe  it  looked 
at  this  hour,  in  spite  of  the  chief  butler's  portly  presence. 

"A  parson,.!  suppose,"  mused  the  butlen  when  the  figure  ^ 


332  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

Malcolm  Forde  had  vanished  from  the  porch,  beneath  whose 
ehadow  he  had  lingered  a  few  moments  to  look  back  into  the 
house,  wondering  whether  amidst  all  this  pomp  slie  was  loved 
and  well  cared  for.  "  A  parson,  I  make  no  doubt.  What 
a  rum  lot  they  are,  to  be  sure !  as  bad  as  ravens— hanging 
about  a  house  where  there's  any  one  dying.  One  would  think 
they  went  pardners  with  the  undertaker.  Let's  have  a  look  at 
his  pasteboard,"  he  continued  aloud,  while  the  gas  was  being 
lighted.  "  The  Keverend  Malcolm  Forde.  Why,  I'm  blest  if  that 
isn't  the  chap  she  was  engaged  to  before  we  married  her !  Fancy 
his  coming  area-sneaking  here  whilehis  Ludship'sout  of  the  way." 

For  about  a  fortnight  after  that  evening  Mr.  Forde  sent  a 
messenger  to  Slogh-na-Dyack,  at  intervals  of  twoor  three  days, 
to  inquire  about  Lady  Paulyn ;  and  the  reply  being  always  to 
the  effect  that  her  ladyship  was  progressing  favourably,  he 
comforted  himself  with  the  idea  that  all  danger  was  past,  and 
finally  told  the  messenger  he  need  go  no  more.  His^  own 
residence  at  Dunallen  was  drawing  to  a  close ;  Mr.  McKenzie 
writing  cheerily  from  divers  Belgian  towns,  where  he  and  his 
family  were  enjoying  the  glories  and  pleasures  of  continental 
travel,  on  an  economical  scale ;  but  writing  still  more  cheerily 
of  his  approaching  return  to  the  home-nest. 

"After  all,  my  dear  Forde,  there's  no  place  like  our  own  wee 
parlour ;  and  there's  nothing  in  the  way  of  foreign  kickshaws, 
partridges  with  stewed  pears,  and  the  Lord  knows  what,  that  I 
rehsh  as  much  as  a  sheep's-head  or  a  few  broth.  And  I  think 
my  wife's  potato-soup  beats  your  potage  a  Vltalienne  or  your 
puree  aux  iwis  hollow.  The  hills  about  Spa  are  a  poor 
business  compared  with  Argyleshire;  and  if  it  wasn't  for  being 
covered  with  iirs,  v.ould  be  paltry  beyond  comparison.  As  it 
doesn't  do  for  a  white  choker  to  adorn  the  gaming-table,  I  had 
rather  a  dull  time  of  it,  and  was  glad  when  we  got  back  to 
Liege,  where  the  churches  and  gun  factories  are  unapproach- 
able. I  saw  some  wood-carving  about  the  clioir  stalls  that 
would  have  set  your  ritualistic  mouth  watering,  only  that,  now 
you've  given  yourself  up  to  foreign  missions,  you've  turned 
your  back  ujoon  that  kind  of  thing." 

Malcolm  Forde's  time  at  Dunallen  was  nearly  ended;  thank 
God  the  peril  had  passed !  He  could  leave  her  with  a  heart 
that  was  almost  at  peace ;  for  by  this  time  he  had  schooled 
himself  to  accept  his  fate — the  lot  out  of  God's  hand — and  to 
pray  in  humiUty  and  hope  for  her  ultimate  happiness. 

Thus  came  the  last  day  but  one  of  his  service  at  Dunallen. 
He  had  been  at  work  from  early  in  the  morning,  going  from 
dwelHng  to  dwelling  —  dwellings  which  were  chiedy  of  the 
cottage  order— taking  leave  of  pcocle  to  whom  he  had  made 


Strangers  and  Pilgrms.  333 

himself  fear  in  the  short  space  of  nis  ministration  among 
them ;  promising  to  remember  them  at  the  other  end  of  the 
world,  in  compliance  with  their  desire  tliat  he  would  sometimes 
think  of  them  when  he  was  far  away.  He  answered  them  with 
a  somewhat  mournful  smile,  thinking  of  that  other  memory 
which  would  cleave  to  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

There  was  weeping  and  wailing  in  all  these  humble  habita- 
tions at  the  prospect  of  his  departure.  Mr.  McKenzie  was  a 
good  man  and  a  kind,  they  all  protested  warmly ;  and  Mrs, 
McKenzie's  potato-soup  and  honest  barley-broth  kept  soul  and 
body  together  in  many  a  household  through  the  bleak  long 
winter;  but  Mr.  McKenzie  wasn't  like  Mr.  Forde.  He  had  a 
little  dry  way  of  talking  to  folks,  and  didn't  enter  into  the  very 
thoughts  of  poor  bodies  like  his  substitute.  Nor  could  he 
preach  so  fine  a  sermon  as  Mr.  Forde;  a  strong  jjoint  with 
these  critical  Caledonians. 

His  day's  labours  were  ended  at  last.  He  had  trodden  the 
heather-clad  hills  he  loved  so  well  for  the  last  time;  had  taken 
his  last  look  at  Slogh-na-Dyack's  white  towers ;  and  he  sat  by 
his  solitary  hearth  thinking  how  very  soon  he  should  have  left 
this  well-known  land  to  resume  his  work  among  a  strange  people. 
Not  unhopefully  did  he  look  forward  to  new  toil,  new 
anxieties.  The  eager  thirst  of  conquest,  which  urges  the 
missionary  as  it  urges  the  Avarrior,  had  grown  somewhat 
languid  with  him  of  late;  he  could  not  feel  quite  the  old 
enthusiasm.  "  I  go  to  reclaim  the  lost  among  a  strange  people," 
he  thought,  "  while  the  soul  that  I  love  best  on  earth  may 
be  perishing ;  the  soul  that  I  might  have  trained  to  such  a 
high  destiny." 

He  had  letters  to  write — much  still  to  do  before  leaving 
Scotland;  but  he  sat  by  the  lonely  fireside  in  the  gloaming,  lost 
in  melancholy  thought.  Tlie  neat  little  maid-servant  came  to 
ask  if  she  should  bring  the  lamp  ;  but  he  told  her  no,  he 
liked  the  firelight.  "It  is  a  pleasant  light  for  thinking  by, 
Meg,"  he  said. 

A  pleasant  light,  perhaps ;  but  his  thoughts  were  not  plea- 
Bant.  He  tried  to  confine  them  to  the  actual  lousiness  of  his 
life,  the  work  that  lay  before  him  in  the  future ;  but  they  would 
not  be  directed.  They  clung  with  a  passionate  regret  to  the 
Bcene  he  was  about  to  leave.  They  hung  around  the  white- 
walled  chateau ;  they  wandered  in  and  out  of  those  unknown 
chambers  where  Elizabeth  lived;  they  would  not  be  diverted 
from  her. 

"  If  she  were  well  and  happy  it  would  be  different,"  he  said 
to  himself,  in  self-exciilpation. 

_  He  sat  on  till  the  chapel  clock  had  struck  nine.     The  October 
night  was  blusterous,  -ssild  gusts  ratthug  the  window-frames, 


Z2^  iSlrangers  and  Pilgrims. 

and  rustling  the  ivy  witli  a  gruesome  and  gliostly  sonnd,  as  of 
disembodied  souls  striving  for  admittance.  The  moou  was  up, 
and  by  fits  and  starts  emerged  from  a  stormy  sea  of  blackest 
clouds,  lighting  up  the  wild  landscape,  the  water  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill.  It  was  during  one  of  these  sudden  bursts  of  moon- 
light that  Mr.  Forde,  happening  suddenly  to  look  up,  saw  a 
Btrange  figure  outside  his  window;  a  face  white  as  the  moon- 
Ught,  peering  in  at  him  through  the  glass.  For  a  moment  he 
iooked  at  it  in  dumb  wonder,  taking  it  for  the  embodiment  of 
his  own  troubled  fancies,  a  mere  visionary  creature ;  as  if  that 
melancholy  sound  of  the  ivy  leaves  against  the  glass  had  made 
itself  a  shape  out  of  the  shadows. 

It  was  very  real,  however.  A  hand  tapped  upon  the  pane, 
with  a  hurried  imperious  tapping.  He  got  up  from  his  chair, 
and  went  over  to  the  window. 

Great  Heaven  !  it  was  that  one  woman  whose  image  absorbed 
his  every  thought ;  it  was  Elizabeth ! 

"  Let  me  in !"  she  cried  piteously,  intones  that  seemed  strange 
to  him ;  stranger  even  than  her  presence  in  that  spot.  He 
opened  the  window  softly. 

"  I  will  come  round  to  the  door  and  let  you  in,"  he  said ;  "  for 
Heaven's  sake  what  has  hai^pened.P" 

"  Only  that  I  have  cheated  them  all  at  last,"  she  said,  look- 
ing at  him  with  wild  beseeching  eyes ;  "  I  have  broken  loose 
from  my  bondage.  0  Malcolm,  you  will  not  let  them  take  me 
back  again  p" 

Something— an  unutterable  indefinable  something — in  her 
tones  and  looks  struck  him  with  a  sharper  j^ain  than  he  had 
felt  even  yet ;  though  almost  all  his  thoughts  of  her  had  been 
pain.  He  rushed  across  the  room,  and  the  tiny  hall  beyond  it, 
to  the  door,  only  a  few  paces  from  the  window  by  which  she 
Btood.  He  opened  it  quickly,  went  out  into  the  wintiy  night, 
and  found  her  still  rapping  impatiently  upon  the  pane,  as  if 
ehe  had  not  heard  or  comprehended  what  he  said  to  her. 

She  was  clad  in  some  loose  long  garment  of  the  dressing- 
gown  species,  and  had  a  shawl  flung  carelessly  over  her  shoul- 
ders ;  but  neither  hat  nor  bonnet.  Her  long  rippUng  hair  fell 
loosely  about  her,  mixed  with  the  folds  of  her  shawl. 

"  Dear  Lady  Paulyn,"  ho  said  very  gently,  "  what  could  have 
induced  you  to  come  here  at  such  an  hour  ?  Good  heavens,  you 
have  surely  not  walked  ?"  he  added  hastily :  looking  down 
the  long  moonlit  road,  where  there  was  no  vastige  of  any 
vehicle. 

"  Yes ;  I  have  come  all  the  way  on  toot,  and  alone.  I  was 
afraid  at  first  that  I  might  not  find  you ;  but  there  was  some 
instinct  led  me  right,  I  think.  Sometimes  I  saw  you  a  little 
way  before  me  in  the  moonlight,  and  you  turned,  "ow  and  then. 


Strangers  and  Filgrms.  835 

and  smiled  and  beckoned  to  me.  Your  smile  drew  me  after 
you.  Why  do  you  live  so  far  off,  Malcolm  ?  you  were  so  much 
nearer  at  Hawleigh.  I  remember  that  morning  I  came  to  see 
you,  only  to  find  you  gone — it  seemed  so  short  a  walk ;  but  to- 
night it  was  like  walking  on  for  ever  and  ever." 

"Come  into  the  house,"  he  said,  in  a  curious  half-mufl3ed 
voice,  a  deadly  fear  rending  his  heart.  "  Come  into  the  warm 
i-oom,  Elizabeth;  you  are  shivering." 

"Not  with  cold,"  she  said  hastily;  "with  fear." 

"Fear!  of  what?" 

"  That  they'll  follow  me,  and  take  me  away  from  you.  They'll 
guess  where  I've  come,  you  know ;  as  you  and  I  are  engaged 
to  be  married.  My  horrible  jailers  will  hunt  me  down,  Mal- 
colm ;  Hilda  at  their  head.  Hilda,  who  is  the  worst  of  all — 
not  rough  and  cruel  with  her  hands  like  the  others — but 
cruel  with  her  cold  watchful  eyes,  that  are  looking  me  into  my 
grave." 

What  was  this  P  the  delirium  of  fever  ?  He  had  been  told 
that  the  fever  had  passed,  that  she  was  almost  well.  They  had 
deceived  him  evidently ;  they  denied  his  right  to  know  what  pro- 
gress she  made  towards  recovery  or  towards  death.  They  had 
mocked  him  with  their  lying  messages. 

He  put  her  shawl  round  her,  and  drew  her  into  the  house. 
He  could  keep  her  here  long  enough  for  her  to  rest  and  refresh 
herself,  while  a  messenger  went  to  Slogh-na-Dyack  to  fetch  a 
carriage  to  convey  her  home.  This  was  obviously  his  duty.  She 
had  talked  wildly  of  her  jailers;  she  had  enti'eated  him  not  to 
deliver  her  up  to  them :  yet  his  first  act  must  needs  be  in  a 
manner  to  betray  her.  His  duty  was  clearly  to  restore  her  into 
the  hands  of  her  friends. 

That  wild  horror  of  Hilda  and  of  her  nurses  could  but  be  the 
raving  of  delirium.  They  were  doubtless  kind  enough  in  their 
way — even  if  it  were  not  the  kindest  way — only  hired  service,  or 
the  task-work  imposed  by  duty.  It  was  common  for  these  poor 
fever-distracted  souls  to  exhibit  a  horror  of  their  best  friends — '■ 
to  fly  from  them  even  as  she  had  fled.  No,  there  was  nothing 
for  him  to  do  but  restore  her  to  her  own  home — to  that  lonely 
pile  which  had  seemed  to  him  so  darksome  and  gloomy  a  habi- 
tation that  autumn  twilight  when  he  crossed  its  threshold  for 
the  first  time. 

He  led  her  into  the  parlour,  where  pine-logs  and  sea-coal  were 
burning  cheerily,  led  her  into  the  ruddy  home-like  light,  her 
weary  head  resting  on  his  shoulder ;  as  it  had  never  rested  since 
the  night  when  he  asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  and  let  all  the 
Bcheme  of  his  existence  drift  away  from  him  upon  the  floodtide 
of  passion.  He  placed  her  in  the  big^easy-cliair  by  the  hearth, 
removed  her  shawl,  damp  with  the  night  dew,  and  then  planted 


336  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

himself  by  the  opposite  side  of  the  mantelpiece,  watching  her 
with  grave  anxiety,  thinking  even  in  this  sad  moment  how  fair 
a  picture  si.!*,  made  in  the  firelight,  a  sad  forlorn  face  with 
troubled  eyes,  a  hstless  figure  half-shrouded  in  a  veil  of  golden- 
brown  hair.  If  it  were  his  duty,  as  he  felt  it  was,  to  communi- 
cate with  her  friends,  there  was  time  enough  to  dispatch  his 
messenger.  He  wanted  her  to  speak  a  Uttle  more  clearly  first, 
to  discover  the  full  significance  of  her  fear. 

She  sat  for  some  minutes  in  silence  staring  absently  at  the 
fire,  with  a  half  smile  upon  her  face,  as  if  exhausted  by  her 
long  walk,  and  feeling  a  physical  satisfaction  in  m^  ''"e  warmth 
and  rest.  Then,  after  what  seemed  to  Malcolm  a  ,ery  long 
pause,  she  looked  slowly  round  the  room,  still  smiling,  and  this 
time  with  more  meaning  in  her  smile. 

"  How  pretty  your  room  looks  in  the  firelight !"  she  said  in 
her  old  light  tone,  which  smote  him  to  the  heart  at  such  a  time. 
"  Bat  your  rooms  are  always  pretty,  with  books  and  things — 
much  prettier  than  my  grand  rooms,  crowded  with  pictures,  and 
gilding,  and  finery,  and  a  hundred  colours  that  make  my  eyes 
ache  to  look  at  them.  I  like  this  sober  brown-looking  parlour, 
like  an  interior  by  Rembrandt.  This  is  the  first  time  that  I 
have  been  in  any  room  of  yours  since  I  came  to  you  that  morn- 
ing at  Hawleigh.  But  we  were  not  engaged  to  be  married  in 
those  days !"  she  added,  smiling  innocently  up  at  him,  as  if 
she  were  saying  the  most  reasonable,  the  most  natural  thing  in 
this  world. 

"Our  engagement!  "  he  said  gravely,  "that  is  an  auld  sang, 
and  came  to  an  end  long  ago.  Let  us  talk  of  the  future,  Lady 
Paulyn,  not  of  the  past." 

She  watched  him  as  he  spoke,  with  a  curious  look,  as  if  she 
saV  him  talking  without  hearing  what  he  said. 

"  It  was  before  we  were  engaged,"  she  went  on,  pursuing  her 
own  line  of  thought.  "  How  soon  are  we  to  be  married,  Mal- 
colm ?  When  we  are  married  you  can  take  me  away  from  that 
dreadful  room,"  with  a  shudder,  "  that  horrid  room  where  I  lie 
awake  night  after  night  watching  the  candle  burn  slowly  down 
— O,  how  slowly  it  burns ! — and  the  reflection  of  the  flame  in 
the  shining  oak  panel.  It  was  clever  of  me  to  find  out  that 
about  the  candle,  wasn't  it  ?  They  took  away  my  watch,  and 
got  tired  of  telling  me  what  o'clock  it  was,  or  were  too  unkind 
to  do  it ;  and  then  I  thought  of  King  Alfred  and  the  candles, 
and  knew  by  their  burning  when  morning  had  nearly  come." 

Ho  sighed — a  heartbroken  sigh — and  sat  down  by  her, 
taking  her  hand  gently.  "  Dear  Lady  Paulyn,"  he  began,  with 
a  stress  upon  the  name,  "  I  want  to  decide,  with  your  help, 
what  we  had  better  do.  This  long  dreary  walk  must  have  tired 
Tou  so  much.    You  have  been  very  ill " 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  337 

She  turned  upon  him  sharply,  with  flashing  eyes.  "  Do  not  sa>^ 
that  to  me,"  she  cried  angrily ;  "  that  is  what  all  the  doctors  saidi 
'Dear  lady,  you  have  been  very  ill;'  talking  tc  me  in  thei' 
soothing  sugary  tones,  as  if  they  were  reasoning  with  a  baby  ir 
arms.  I  told  them  that  I  was  not  ill — that  I  was  quite  as  well  as 
^  had  ever  been  in  my  life — only  that  I  wanted  to  be  let  out  of 
that  hideous  room,  to  go  out  upon  the  hills,  to  come  to  you, 
Malcolm,"  with  sudden  tenderness. 

"  And  you  see  I  was  right,"  she  went  on,  after  a  little  pause. 
"  If  I  were  ill,  do  you  suppose  I  could  have  walked  ever  so  many 
miles  ?  and  I  came  along  almost  as  fast  as  the  wind.  I  ran 
[)art  of  the  way.     Could  I  do  that  if  I  were  ill,  Malcolm  P  " 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  his  head  turned  away  fron. 
lier  and  from  the  firelight,  Ms  face   quite  hidden.     The  first 
sound  that  broke  that  silence  was  a  smothered  sob. 
She  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"  Malcolm,  why  are  you  unhappy  about  me  ?  Don't  yotl 
understand  that  I  am  not  ill  ?  What  does  it  matter  to  us  if  all 
those  doctors  talk  nonsense?  You  can  send  them  all  awa]' 
when  we  are  married." 

"  Elizabeth,"  he  said  with  tender  earnestness,  taking  her  thin 
cold  hand  in  his,  and  holding  it  while  he  spoke, — alas,  there  was 
no  sign  of  bodily  fever  in  that  poor  little  hand !  it  was  that 
greater  fever  of  the  mind  which  he  perceived  here,  with  supreme 
anguish, — "  Elizabeth,  there  is  a  kind  of  illness  in  which  the 
mind  is  the  cliief  sufferer,  an  illness  of  which  it  seems  to  me 
the  best  means  of  cure  are  in  the  hands  of  the  patient,  and  not 
the  doctor.  Patience  and  I'esignation,  dear,  are  the  means  of 
cure  which  God  has  given  to  us  all.  If  anything  has  made  you 
unhappy,  if  anything  has  disturbed  your  peace  of  mind,  pray 
to  Him  for  help,  for  consolation,  for  cure.  They  will  come, 
Elizabeth ;  believe  me,  they  will  come." 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly  for  a  few  minutes,  as  if  there 
were  something  in  his  words  that  made  her  thoughtful.  _He 
was  the  first  person  who  had  ever  spoken  to  her  of  her  mind, 
who  had  ever  boldly  told  her  that  all  was  not  well  there.  The 
doctors  had  simpered  at  her,  and  tut-tuted  and  patted  her  gently 
on  the  head,  as  if  she  had  suddenly  gone  backward  in  years  and 
become  a  child  of  two.  They  had  made  pretty  little  affectionate 
speeches  of  a  sugar-plum  fashion,  never  giving  her  a  direct 
answer  to  her  eager  questions,  putting  off  everything  blandly 
till  to-morrow,  till  she  began  to  think  the  order  of  the  universe 
was  changed,  and  time  was  all  to-morrow.  And  then  they  left 
her  to  lie  on  her  bed  and  wonder  from  dawn  to  sunset,  from 
night  till  morning,  and  to  weave  strange  romances  in  her  ever- 
working  brain,  for  lack  of  any  reality  in  her  hfe  except  the 
horrible  reality  of  the  room  she  hated  and  the  nurses  who  ill- 


338  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

used  lier.  Bnt  tliis  was  part-and-parcel  of  the  magical  process 
of  isolation  wliereby  she  was  to  recover  her  wits. 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  my  mind,"  she  said 
"What  should  there  be  the  matter  now  that  I  am  with  you, 
and  happy  P  There  never  was  anything  the  matter  with  me 
except  the  silent  hon-or  of  that  room,  and  those  rough-handed 
women  who  stared  at  me,  and  worried  me  from  morning  till 
night  with  medicines  and  messes,  jelhes  and  beafteas  and  things, 
making  believe  that  I  was  ill.  But  you  won't  give  me  back  to 
them — you  won't  let  them  take  me  away  from  you  P  Promise 
me  that,  Malcolm;  mind,  you  must  promise  me  that,"  half 
rising  from  her  chair  and  clinging  to  him. 

"  My  dearest,  do  not  ask  me  to  make  an  impossible  promise. 
I  have  no  alternative.  It  is  my  duty  to  restore  you  to  your 
friends.  You  cannot  remain  here ;  and  where  can  you  so  pro- 
perly be  as  in  your  own  house  P  Try  to  think,  Elizabeth,  what 
the  world  would  say  if  it  knew  that  you  wished  to  leave  your 
husband  and  your  own  proper  home  !  " 

"My  husband!"  she  repeated,  with  a  cold  laugh — "my  hus- 
band !  That  is  what  Hilda  said  to  me  one  day.  The  nurses 
talk  of  viy  delusions ;  why,  there  can  be  no  delusion  so  wild  as 
thai  !  As  if  I  could  have  any  other  husband  than  you,  Malcolm, 
after  that  night  in  the  Vicarage  garden  when  I  almost  asked  you 
to  marry  me.  My  husband !  Go  back  to  my  husband,  go  away 
from  you  to  my  husband  !  What,  Malcolm,  are  you  going  to 
talk  nonsense  like  all  the  rest  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  round  with  a 
helpless  bewildered  air.  "  I  begin  to  think  that  every  one  in  the 
world  is  going  mad  except  myself." 

"  Ehzabeth,  if  you  would  only  try  to  remember.  It  is  quite 
true  that  old  promise  was  made,  dear,  and  you  and  I  were  to  be 
together  all  our  lives.  But  Providence  has  ruled  otherwise.  A 
foolish  mistake  of  mine  divided  us,  and  then,  after  a  little  while, 
vou  found  another  lover  whose  constancy  and  devotion  must 
nave  gained  your  gratitude  and  esteem,  if  not  your  love,  for  yon 
married  him.  Remember,  EHzabeth,  you  are  the  wife  of  Lord 
Paulyn.  You  owe  aifectiou,  duty,  obedience  to  him,  and  you 
are  bound  to  go  back  to  the  shelter  of  his  roof.  If  it  seems 
dismal  and  strange  to  you  Avhile  you  are  so  ill,  dear,  be  assured 
that  fancy  will  pass  away.  Only  pray  for  God's  hel^^,  pray  to 
Him  to  banish  all  evil  fancies." 

"Evil  fancies!"  shs  cried,  staring  at  him  with  wide-open 
wondering  eyes,  and  an  expression  that  was  half  perplexity,  half 
contempt  for  his  persistent  folly.  "You  are  like  the  rest. 
Malcolm,  mad,  mad  !  IIow  dare  you  say  that  I  am  married  !  how 
dare  you  say  that  I  have  ever  been  false  to  you  !  Good  heavens, 
have  I  not  thought  of  ycu  without  ceasing  since  the  first  night 
of  our  engageuient,  that  night  when  wc  stood  by  the  Vicaraije 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  339 

gate,  Malcolm,  and  you  confessed  you  loved  me  ?  I  did  wring 
that  confession  from  yon  at  last ;  and  O,  how  proud  it  made 
me,  as  if  I  had  tamed  a  lion  and  made  him  lie  down  at  my  feet !" 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  looking  down  at  the  fire 
with  a  happy  smile,  placidly  happy  in  that  supreme  egotism, 
that  curious  self-concentration,  which  is  one  of  the  charac- 
teristics of  lunacy,  as  if  living  over  again  that  hour  of  trium- 
t)hant  love,  the  hour  in  which  she  had  proved  that  passion  may 
)e  stronger  than  princii^le  even  in  a  good  man's  breast. 

"  Why  do  you  talk  to  me  of  husbands ! "  she  cried,  with  a 
little  burst  of  anger.  "  There  is  a  man  at  Slogh-na-Dyack  who 
ill-treated  me,  hurt  me  with  his  strong  cruel  grasjD,  dragged  me 
away  from  the  window  when  I  wanted  to  escajDC  to  you.  He  is 
not  my  husband.  You  won't  send  me  back  to  Mm,  will  you, 
Malcolm?  0  God,  you  could  not  be  so  cruel  as  that!  If  you 
knew  how  I  watched  day  after  day,  night  after  night,  before 
this  chance  came,  before  I  could  get  away  from  that  hateful 
room  !  They  kept  iny  door  locked  in  my  own  house — think  of 
that,  Malcolm — the  door  locked  upon  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  re- 
fractory child !  I  watched  them  to  find  out  where  they  put  the 
keys  of  the  two  doors.  But  they  would  not  let  me  see,  and  it 
was  only  to-night  for  the  first  time  that  I  cheated  them.  They 
were  both  out  of  the  room — no  one  there,  not  even  Hilda,  my 
arch  enemy,  who  has  tried  to  poison  me.  Yes,  Malcolm,  you 
will  not  believe,  but  I  have  seen  it  in  her  face — only  I  have 
refused  to  eat,  and  bafiled  her  that  way.  I  have  refused  to 
touch  anything  for  days,  till  they  forced  me  to  swallow  their 
abominable  messes,"  with  a  look  of  unutterable  disgust,  "  bend- 
ing over  me  with  their  odious  breath,  and  clutching  me  with 
their  great  hot  hands.  Malcolm  ! "  starting  up  from  her  chair, 
and  appealing  to  him  passionately,  with  outsti-etched  hands, 
"  swear  that  you  will  not  give  me  back  into  their  power !  Kill 
me  if  you  like,  if  you  have  quite  left  off  loving  me,  if  I  am  no 
use  to  the  world  or  you — kill  me,  Malcolm ;  death  from  your 
hands  would  not  be  painful — but  don't  send  me  back  to  that 
locked  room  !  Good  heavens,  why  do  you  stand  there  looking 
a  "me  like  that?  Are  you  afraid  of  them,  afraid  of  Hilda 
Disney,  afraid  of  that  stony  cruel  man  you  call  my  husband?" 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ? "  he  cried,  not  yet  able  to  master  even 
his  own  thoughts,  at  sea  on  a  stormy  ocean  of  doubt  and  pity 
and  love  and  honour.  To  see  her  thus,  beautiful  even  in  the 
Titter  wreck  of  reason,  loving,  humble,  confiding,  the  pride  that 
had  been  her  blemish  extinguished  for  ever — to  see  her  thus, 
casting  herself  upon  his  love,  appealing  to  his  manhood,  and 
yet  to  feel  himself  powerless  to  help  her  in  the  smallest  degree, 
unable  to  stand  for  a  moment  between  her  and  her  sorrow — this 
was  an  orJt'al  lieyond  the  worst  peril  of  his  wanderings,  beyond 


340  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

the  circle  of  yelping  savages,  the  fire  kindled  at  his  feet,  which 
he  had  considered  among  the  jjossibilities  of  his  career.  He 
constrained  himself  by  a  supreme  eii'ort  of  his  troubled  mind  to 
contemplate  the  situation  calmly,  as  if  he  had  been  interested 
only  in  his  priestly  character,  called  upon,  to  advise  or  direct  in 
such  an  emergency. 

"No,"  he  exclaimed  at  last;  "you  snail  not  go  back  to 
Slogh-na-Dyack,  if  I  can  prevent  it." 

She  gave  a  cry  of  joy,  a  wild  passionate  cry,  as  of  a  soul 
released  from  purgatory. 

"Thank  God!"  she  cried.  "  0, 1  knew  that  you  would  not 
send  me  back !  Let  me  stay  with  you,  Malcolm  ;  let  me  follow 
you  in  all  your  wanderings.  Do  you  think  I  fear  hardship,  or 
famine,  or  weariness,  where  you  are  ?  Let  me  teach  the  little 
children  in  those  savage  lands.  Children  have  always  loved  me, 
and  I  them.  Eemember  how  I  nursed  the  children  at  Haw- 
leigh.  Let  me  go  with  you,  Malcolm.  I  will  be  anything  you 
order  me  to  be,  a  slave  to  work  for  those  wretched  people,"  with 
a  faint  shudder,  as  if  she  had  not  yet  overcome  her  idea  of  the 
general  commonness  of  the  missionary  order.  "  I  will  endure 
everything — toil,  danger,  death — if  you  will  let  me  be  with  you." 

He  did  not  answer  her,  except  with  a  long  look  of  sorrowful 
tenderness — parting  the  loose  hair  gently  from  her  forehead 
with  a  protecting  touch,  which  was  curiously  different  from  the 
patronising  pattings  of  the  faculty — contemijlating  her  with  a 
deploring  tenderness.  He  could  not  answer  her.  To  reason — 
to  attempt  to  awaken  dormant  memories — seemed  useless.  The 
doors  of  her  brain  had  shut  up  the  story  of  her  wedded  life.  It 
was  not  in  his  power  to  recall  her  to  a  sense  of  her  actual  posi- 
tion— to  rend  the  veil  which  shut  out  the  realities — leaving  her 
soul  in  a  fool's  paradise  of  dreams. 

He  had  arranged  his  jjlan  of  action  meanwhile.  He  rang  for 
the  lamp,  and  the  honest  Scottish  lassie,  entering  with  the 
lighted  moderator,  beheld  with  obvious  consternation  the  figure 
of  a  lady,  with  pale  face  and  disordered  hair,  clad  in  a  long 
purple  garment,  slashed  and  faced  with  satin — a  garment  such 
as  Maggie  the  housemaid  had  never  looked  upon  before,  a  gar- 
ment fastened  with  cords  and  tassels,  which  the  lady's  restless 
fingers  knotted  and  unknotted  again  and  again  while  Maggie 
stared  at  her. 

"  Tell  your  brother  to  saddle  Trim,"  said  Mr.  Forde,  in  hia 
quietest  manner:  "I  want  a  message  taken  to  the  railway 
station  at  Ellensbridge." 

He  looked  at  his  watch  thoughttully.  No,  it  would  hardly  be 
too  late  to  send  a  telegram  from  that  small  station. 

"  Ye'll  no'  be  sending  the  night,  Mr.  Forde,"  said  the  girl, 
« the  Btation'll  be  shut." 


Strangers  and  JPilgriim.  341 

"  No,  it  won't,  Magofie.  Tell  your  brother  to  get  the  pony 
ready  this  minute.  And  then  oome  back  to  me  for  the 
message." 

He  took  the  lamp  to  a  desk  on  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
where  he  had  the  blank  forms  for  telegrams  and  all  business 
appUances,  and,  without  farther  deliberation,  wrote  the  follow- 
ing message: 

"  Malcolm  Forde,  Dunallen,  Argyleshire,  to  Gertrude  Luttrell, 
Hawleigh,  Devon,  England. 

"  Tour  sister,  Lady  Paulyn,  is  dangerously  ill.  Come  at 
once  to  this  place.  A  case  of  urgent  necessity.  Telegraph 
reply." 

He  filled  another  form  with  almost  the  same  words  addressed 
to  Mrs.  Chevenix,  Eaton-place-south.  And  having  delivered 
these  to  Maggie,  with  strict  instructions  as  to  haste  and  care  in 
the  manner  of  transmitting  them,  he  began  to  consider  how 
Boon  either  of  these  women  could  reach  that  remote  spot.  It 
was  too  late  for  Mrs.  Chevenix  to  leave  town  by  the  limited 
mail.  She  could  only  amve  at  Dunallen  upon  the  following 
night,  just  twenty-four  hours  after  the  sending  of  the  telegram. 
And  during  that  interval  how  was  he  to  protect  Elizabeth  fi-om 
her  natural  protectors — from  people  who  had  an  unassailable 
right  to  the  custody  of  this  helpless  creature  ? 

His  only  hope  lay  in  the  chance  that  they  might  not  guess 
•where  she  had  gone ;  yet  he  hardly  dared  hope  as  much  as  that, 
when  Miss  Disney  knew  that  he  was  in  the  neighbourhood,  and 
doubtless  knew  that  he  had  once  been  Elizabeth's  betrothed 
husband.  His  first  thought,  the  telegrams  being  despatched, 
was  to  find  her  a  fitting  refuge.  He  had  friends  enough  in  the 
cosy  httle  hill-side  colony,  friends  who,  in  the  common  accepta- 
tion of  the  phrase,  would  have  gone  through  fire  and  water  to 
serve  him,  though  they  had  only  known  him  seven  weeks.  He 
debated  for  a  little  while — a  very  little  while — for  moments  were 
precious,  and  he  had  already  lost  much  time,  an^i  'ohen  decided 
upon  his  plan  of  action.  Two  ancient  maiden  ladies,  his  devoted 
admirers,  lived  in  a  snug  little  villa  hardly  five  minutes'  walk 
from  the  manse — friendly  Scotch  bodies,  upon  whose  kindness 
and  singleness  of  heart  he  could  rely.  With  these  two  ladies  he 
might  find  the  fittest  shelter  for  the  forlorn  being  who  had  cast 
herself  upon  his  care.  Lodged  safely  here,  she  might,  perhaps, 
escape  pursuit  for  a  httle  while — just  long  enough  to  bring  the 
friends  of  her  girlhood  round  her,  so  that  she  might  at  least 
have  her  sister  by  her  side  when  she  went  back  to  Slogh-na- 
Dyack. 

"  Wrap  your  shawl  closely  round  you,  Lady  Paulyn,"  he  said. 


312  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  you  to  a  house  where  you  can  sleep  to« 
night — to  friends  who  will  take  care  of  you." 

"  Friends! "  she  cried.  "  I  have  no  friends  in  the  world  but 
you.  Let  me  stay  here— with  you.  O,  Malcolm,  you  are  not 
going  to  send  me  away  after  all  P  " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  send  you  back  to  the  people  you  fear — a3 
I  believe  without  reason.  I  am  going  to  put  you  in  the  charge 
of  two  good  friends  of  mine — kind  old  Scotch  women,  who  will 
be  very  good  to  you." 

"  I  want  no  one's  goodness,"  she  exclaimed  impatiently. 
*'  Why  can  I  not  stay  here  with  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  quite  impossible." 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"  Because  you  have  a  husband  and  a  house  of  your  own." 

She  shook  her  head  angrily.  "  He  is  madder  than  the  rest," 
she  muttered. 

"  And  I  should  do  very  wrong  to  detain  you  here.  I  fear  that, 
if  I  did  my  duty,  I  should  at  once  communicate  with  your  house- 
hold at  Slogh-na-Dyack." 

"  You  will  not  do  that !  "  she  cried,  starting  up,  and  clinging 
to  his  ai'm. 

"No,  Elizabeth,  I  cannot  do  that — against  your  wish.  I  will 
see  you  placed  in  safe  hands,  and  perhaps  to-morrow  one  of  youi 
sisters,  or  your  aunt,  may  be  here  to  protect  you." 

"  One  of  my  sisters,"  she  rejoeated  dreamily.  "  I  should  like 
to  have  Blanche  with  me.     I  was  always  fond  of  Blanche." 

"  Come,  then,  the  less  time  we  lose  the  better." 

He  went  out  into  the  hall,  she  following  him,  and  thence  to 
the  garden  in  front  of  the  manse.  He  gave  her  his  arm  as  they 
went  out  into  the  windy  road,  white  in  the  moonlight,  but  they 
had  scarcely  crossed  the  boundary  when  she  gave  a  shrill  scream 
and  darted  back  towards  the  house.  Two  women,  one  tall  and 
gaunt-looking,  were  standing  in  the  road,  a  few  paces  from  the 
brougham,  which  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  them. 

The  tall  woman  advanced  to  meet  Mr.  Forde,  the  other  ran 
back  to  the  carriage,  and  exclaimed  to  some  one  inside, 
"We've  found  her,  Miss  Disney,  we've  found  her!" 

"What  do  you  want?  "  asked  Malcolm,  his  heart  sinking  with 
a  sickness  as  of  death  itself.  Vain  had  been  his  hope  of  putting 
himself  between  her  and  the  people  to  whom  she  belonged. 

"That  lady,"  said  the  female  grenadier,  pointing  to  Elizabeth, 
who  stood  iu  the  porch  watching  them,  "  Jjady  Paulyn.  It  was 
Miss  Disney  told  us  to  come  here  to  look  for  her." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hilda,  who  had  alighted  from  the  brougha-m, 
"and  if  you  had  been  hcmest  enough  to  tell  me  of  Lady  Paulyn'a 
escape  at  the  time  it  occurred,  instead  of  three  hours  afterwards, 
I  eliouiJ  have  been  here  ever  so  long  ago.  I  daresay  youremeni- 


Strangerd  and  Pilgrims,  3-13 

ber  me,  Mr.  Forde,"  she  added,  turning  to  Malcolm.  *'  I  met 
you  at  luncheon  one  day  at  Hawleigh  Vicarage.  My  name  is 
Disney.     I  am  Lord  Paulyn's  cousin." 

"  I  remember  you  perfectly,  Miss  Disney." 

"  I  am  sorry  we  should  meet  again  under  such  lamentable 
circumstances.  You  have  of  course  perceived  poor  Lady  Paulyn's 
sad  condition  ?     Has  she  been  here  long  ?  " 

"A  little  more  than  an  hour,  I  should  think.  What  made 
you  suppose  that  she  would  come  here  ?  " 

Hilda  hesitated  a  little  before  replying. 

*'  Because  you  are  about  the  only  person  she  kuows  in  thi? 
neighbourhood." 

"  An  isolated  position  for  any  woman  to  occupy,"  said  Mal- 
colm, "  and  I  should  imagine  eminently  calculated  to  depress 
the  spirits  or  even  to  unsettle  the  mind." 

"  Lady  Paulyn  had  my  society  and  her  husband's,  sir ;  and 
I  do  not  believe-  solitude  has  had  anything  to  do  with  the  melan- 
choly state  of  her  mind." 

"  She  has  a  strange  aversion  to  returning  to  Slogh-na-Dyack," 
said  Mr.  Forde,  "  and  a  horror  of  her  nurses,  perhaps  a  natural 
feeling  in  her  delirious  state.  Now,  I  have  friends  here ;  two 
simple-minded  kindly  old  ladies  who  would  be  very  glad  to  take 
charge  of  her  for  a  few  days.  You  might  remain  with  her,  if 
you  pleased ;  and  you  could  by  that  means  withdraw  her  from  a 
place  about  which  she  has  such  an  unhappy  feeling." 

He  did  not  want  to  give  her  up  to  them  without  a  struggle, 
3'et  reason  told  him  any  struggle  would  be  useless.  Miss  Disney'a 
indexible  face,  looking  at  him  sternly  in  the  moonhght,  was  not 
the  face  of  a  woman  to  be  turned  from  her  own  set  purpose  by 
an  appeal  that  might  be  made  to  her  compassion. 

"  I  could  not  iDossibly  sanction  such  an  extraordinary  proceed- 
ing," she  said.  *'  Lord  Paulyn  is  away  from  home,  and  in  his 
absence  I  feel  myself  responsible  for  his  wife's  safety.  I  cannot 
forgive  the  nurses  for  their  shameful  neglect  this  evening." 

"  There's  no  being  up  to  the  artfulness  of  'em,"  said  the  tall 
nurse.  "  This  evening  was  the  first  time  the  key  of  that  door 
was  ever  out  of  my  own  keeping,  owing  to  my  having  torn  my 
pocket,  and  not  liking  to  trust  to  it,  I  jDut  that  blessed  key 
in  a  little  chiny  jar  on  the  mantelpiece." 

"  Will  you  ask  my  cousin  to  come  to  the  carriage,  Mr.  Forde  P  " 
Baid  Miss  Disney  with  a  business-like  air;  "  we  need  not  lose  any 
more  time." 

"  You  had  better  come  into  the  house  for  a  little  while  and 
talk  to  her  quietly.  There  ia  no  occasion  to  let  her  feel  she  is 
taken  back  like  a  prisoner." 

Hilda  complied  rather  unwillingly,  and  Mr.  Forde  led  the  way 
to  the  porch,  where  Elizabeth  stood  waiting  the  issue  of  events. 


S4!4  Strangers  and  Pilgrimg. 

"  You  are  not  going-  to  give  me  up,  are  you  P  "  she  asked. 

"  I  have  no  power  to  detain  you." 

"Then  you  are  a  coward  ! "  she  cried  passionately.  "Is  this 
what  men  have  come  to  since  the  age  of  chivalry,  when  a  man 
would  leap  among  lions  to  pick  up  a  woman's  glove  ?  You  go 
among  the  heathen ;  you  brave  the  rage  of  savages,  their  tor- 
tures, their  poisoned  ai-rows,  their  flames  !  Why,  all  that  they 
/lay  you  have  done  can  be  nothing  but  lies,  when  you  are  afraid 
to  oppose  her,"  pointing  contemptuously  to  Miss  Disney. 

"  Elizabeth,"  he  said  earnestly,  trying  to  pierce  the  confusion 
of  her  mind,  "  there  are  social  laws  stronger  than  fire  or  sword, 
and  the  law  that  gives  a  woman  to  her  husband  is  the  strongest 
of  them  all,  for  it  is  a  divine  law  as  well  as  a  social  one.  I  dare 
not  come  between  you  and  those  who  have  the  best  right  to 
protect  you.  But  I  can  interfere  to  redress  your  wrongs  if  they 
are  false  to  their  trust.  I  do  not  stand  by  unconcerned  in  this 
matter.  Wherever  you  are,  at  Slogh-na-Dyagk  as  well  as  in 
this  house,  I  shall  be  interested  in  your  welfare ;  at  hand  to 
give  you  all  the  help  I  can  give,  counsel  and  consolation  as 
a  minister  of  God's  word,  or  advice  as  a  man  of  the  world. 
I  have  telegrajihed  to  your  sisters  and  your  aunt,  and  I  feel 
little  doubt  they  will  be  with  you  to-morrow  night." 

"  A  most  uncalled-for  interference,"  said  Hilda  disdainfully^ 
"The  doctors  have  forbidden  any  intercourse  between  Lady 
Paulyn  and  her  relations." 

"  What,  do  the  doctors  choose  the  time  when  she  has  most 
need  of  familiar  friends  and  old  associations  to  cut  her  oil 
from  them  altogether  ?  Wise  doctors,  Miss  Disney  !  Common 
eense  and  natural  affection  suggest  a  better  system  of  cure 
for  a  mind  ill  at  ease." 

"You  may  pretend  to  know  more  than  scientific  men  who 
have  made  this  malady  the  study  of  their  lives,"  replied 
Hilda ;  "  but  however  that  may  be,  I  can  only  tell  you  that 
should  the  Miss  Luttrells  be  so  foolish  as  to  come  to  Lord 
Paulyn's  house  uninvited  by  him,  they  will  not  be  allowed 
to  see  their  sister." 

"  We  will  see  about  that  when  they  are  here." 

Elizabeth  stood  between  them  silently.  A  vacant  look  had 
stolen  over  the  pale  melancholy  face.  She  uttered  no  farther 
remonstrance,  no  farther  upbraiding,  but  went  with  Hilda  un- 
resistingly, apathetic,  or  half  unconscious  where  she  was  being 
taken.  The  fitful  fiame  had  died  out  into  darkness.  She  was 
a  creature  without  a  mind  ;  submissive,  inditierent;  to  awaken 
by  and  by  to  a  sense  of  her  imprisonment  and  tc  vain  anger 
and  fuiy,  like  a  wild  animal  that  has  been  netted  while  it  slept. 


Stranqers  and  PiJt/rims.  ^5 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  No  joy  from  favourable  fortnne 
Can  overweigh  the  anguish  of  this  stroke." 

The  night  that  followed  was  the  darkest  Malcolm  Forde  had 
ever  known  till  now,  darker  even  than  that  which  followed  Alice 
Eraser's  death;  for  are  not  the  dead  that  are  already  dead 
better  than  the  living  that  are  yet  ahve  ?  And  to  the  behever 
death  has  no  positive  horror ;  it  is  only  the  anguish  of  separa< 
tion  ;  a  human  sorrow ;  a  human  longing ;  a  sharp  pain,  tempered 
always  by  that  divine  hope  which  makes  this  earthly  Hfe  verily 
a  pilgrimage  leading  to  fair  worlds  beyond  it. 

But  this  death  in  Ufe  called  madness— this  living  death,  which 
may  endure  for  the  length  of  the  longest  life— is  more  bitter 
than  the  coffin  and  the  grave.  To  know  hei  miserable  and  help- 
less in  the  hands  of  people  she  feared— linked  to  a  husband  she 
had  never  even  pretended  to  love— was  to  know  her  in  a  state  as 
much  worse  than  death  as  waking  agony  is  worse  than  dreani- 
less  sleep.  Never  until  this  hour,  when  he  looked  round  his 
empty  room,  the  vacant  chair  where  she  had  sat,  the  expiring 
fire  into  which  those  lovely  eyes  had  gazed  with  their  far-off 
dreaming  look — never  until  now  had  he  fully  realised  how  he 
loved  her;  how  little  the  life  he  had  lived  and  the  work  he 
had  done  in  five  long  years  had  served  to  divide  him  from  her ; 
how  near  and  dear  she  was  to  him  still. 

Sleep,  or  even  the  semblance  of  rest,  the  miserable  pretenco 
of  going  to  bed,  was  impossible  to  him  that  night.  He  walked 
down  to  Slogh-na-Dyack,  down  to  the  little  bay  where  the 
troubled  waters  broke  against  the  shore  with  a  dismal  moaning, 
where  the  reflection  of  the  moon  was  blotted  out  every  now  and 
then  by  black  wind-driven  clouds.  It  was  a  dreary  night,  bleak 
and  wintry ;  not  a  favourable  season  for  midnight  wanderings, 
or  patient  vigil  beneath  the  window  of  a  beloved  sleeper ;  yet 
Malcolm  Forde  paced  the  narrow  strip  of  beach  below  Lord 
Paulyn's  garden ;  a  strip  that  was  covered  at  high  tide,  until 
the  morning  gray.  That  patient  watch  might  be  useless — was 
useless  no  doubt — biit  it  was  all  that  he  could  do ;  the  sole  ser- 
vice he  could  render  to  the  woman  he  loved.  He  saw  the  lighted 
windows  on  the  chief  upper  Uoor — lights  that  never  waned 
through  the  weary  night — and  he  felt  very  sure  they  belonged 
to  the  rooms  inhabited  by  EHzabeth.  Had  a  cry  of  anguist 
broken  from  those  dear  lips,  it  must  have  cierced  the  stillness 


346  Strangers  and  Filgriim. 

of  tlie  night  when  the  wind  was  low,  and  reached  him  on  his 
beat.  Sometimes,  when  the  shrill  blast  shrieked  in  the  moun- 
tain gorge  upon  the  opposite  shore,  he  almost  fancied  the  sound 
of  human  anguish  was  mixed  with  the  voice  of  the  wind.  It 
was  a  sad  unsatisfactory  vigil ;  but  it  was  better  to  be  there, 
beneath  her  windows,  than  to  be  lying  sleepless  miles  away, 
beyond  reach  of  her  loudest  cry.  When  day  came,  and  the  first 
gray  threads  of  smoke  crept  up  from  the  gothic  chimneys,  he 
went  round  to  the  chief  entrance,  rang  the  bell,  and  inquired  of 
the  sleepj""  housemaid  who  answered  it  if  Lady  Paulyn  had 
passed  a  quiet  night. 

"  Ask  the  head  nurse,"  he  said,  as  the  girl  stai-ed  at  him 
vaguely,  "  and  then  come  back  and  tell  me  exactly  what  she 
says,"  emphasising  his  request  with  a  donation. 

The  girl  departed,  and  returned  quickly  enough. 

"  Much  the  same  as  usual,  sir,  Nurse  Barber  says,  and  would 
you  please  leave  your  name  ?  " 

"  Give  that  to  Miss  Disney,"  he  said,  handing  the  girl  his  card, 
on  which  he  had  written  the  date,  and  7  a.m.  He  wanted  Hilda 
to  know  that  he  was  vigilant,  and  was  not  to  be  deterred  from 
watchfulness  by  any  fear  of  slander  or  of  Lord  Paulyn's  dis- 
pleasure. 

This  done,  he  went  back  to  Dunallen,  went  back  to  the  early 
service  in  the  chapel,  and  to  another  day's  work  in  the  quiet 
little  parish  where  he  had  made  himself  beloved.  There  was 
nothing  more  for  him  to  do,  he  thought,  than  to  wait  till  the 
arrival  of  the  fast  train  from  the  South,  which  would  not  reach 
the  station  at  Ellensbi-idge  till  half-past  nine  o'clock  at  night, 
'even  if  it  were  punctual ;  an  event  not  always  to  be  counted  as 
a  certainty  on  a  Scotch  railway. 

He  found  two  telegrams  on  his  study-table  when  he  went- 
back  to  the  manse  after  his  morning's  work.  The  first  from 
Gertrude,  "  I  leave  Hawleigh  at  9  a.m.  to-day,  Thursday,  and 
shall  leave  London  for  Ellensbridge  by  the  limited  mail."  Th( 
second,  a  vague  and  helpless  message  from  ]\Irs.  Chevenix, 
entreating  for  detailed  information,  and  pleading  indifferent 
health  as  a  reason  for  not  coming  to  Scotland,  if  such  a  journey 
might  possibly  be  avoided.  Mrs.  Chevenix  had  squandered 
three-and-sixpence  worth  of  telegraphic  communication  in  the 
endeavour  to  represent  herself  ardently  desii-ous  of  flying  to  her 
beloved  niece's  sick-bed,  yet  unhappily  obliged  to  remain  in 
Eaton-place-south. 

Not  till  to-morrow  therefore  could  Elizabeth's  sad  eyes  be  glad- 
dened by  the  sight  of  a  familiar  face,  not  till  to-morrow  could 
fiiflterly  arms  enibld  that  poor  suffei-er.  For  many  hours  to  come 
Malcolm  Forde  nnr -j  be  content  to  leave  her  to  the  tender  mercy 
»f  hired  nurses  apd  Hilda  Disney.     He  could  do  nothing  for  her 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  347 

except  pray,  and  all  his  tbouglits  in  this  bitter  time  were  prayera 
for  her. 

The  railway  to  Ellensbridge  was  only  a  loop  line,  and  that 
fiteru  adherence  to  the  hours  set  down  in  time-tables  which  is 
demanded  by  southern  passengers  on  main  lines  was  here  t.n- 
known.  If  a  train  came  in  an  hour  or  so  after  time,  no  one 
wondered.  Railway  officials  jilacidly  remarked  that  "  she  was 
ioost  a  wee  bittie  late  the  dee,"  and  that  was  all.  Passengers 
herded  meekly  together  on  the  narrow  platform  and  gazed  up 
and  down  the  line,  and  saw  other  trains  arrive  and  depart — 
trains  that  seemed  to  have  no  place  in  the  time-table — or  watched 
the  leisurely  shunting  of  a  string  of  coal-trucks,  and  made  no 
murmur.  The  marvel  would  have  been  if  a  train  at  Ellensbridge 
had  ever  come  up  to  time. 

Mr.  Forde  paced  the  platform  with  infinite  impatience  when 
the  hour  had  gone  by  at  which  the  train  with  passengers  from 
the  South  should  have  arrived,  waiting  for  the  signal  that 
ehould  announce  Gertrude  Luttrell's  coming.  There  was  nothing 
doing  at  the  station  just  at  this  time ;  even  the  string  of  empty 
coal-trucks  stood  idle,  an  unemployed  engine  on  a  siding  puffed 
and  snorted  lazily,  while  the  stoker  off  duty  amused  himself 
with  the  gymnastics  of  a  disreputable-looking  monkey. _  The 
day  was  wet  and  depressing ;  that  fine  straight  rain,  which  to 
the  impatient  tourist  appears  sometimes  to  be  the  normal 
atmosphere  of  Scotland,  filled  the  air ;  the  kind  of  day  in  which 
Cockney  travellers  in  theTrosachs  stare  hoj^elessly  at  Benvenue, 
looming  big  throagh  the  gray  mist,  and  think  they  might  alrnost 
as  well  be  looking  at  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  from  Blackfriars 
Bridge. 

The  train  came  slowly  in  at  last,  serenely  unconscious  of 
being  three-quarters  of  an  hour  behind  time,  a  diminutive  train 
of  two  carriages  and  an  engine ;  and  out  of  one  of  the  carriages 
Gertrude  Luttrell  looked  with  a  pale  anxious  face,  a  face  which 
Bent  a  thrill  of  pain  through  the  heart  of  Malcolm  Forde,  for  it 
eeenied  to  him  that  in  this  wan  and  faded  countenance  he  saw 
a  likeness  of  that  altered  beauty  he  had  looked  upon  a  little 
while  ago. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  my  sister  ?  "  she  asked  nervously, 
directly  she  was  on  the  platform.  "  O,  Mr.  Forde,  am  I  too 
late?     Is " 

She  stopped,  and  burst  into  tears.  He  led  her  into  the  little 
waiting-room,  and  reassured  her  there  was  no  immediate 
danger. 

"  Thank  God !  "  she  cried,  with  a  strange  fervour.  _  "  0,  Mr. 
Forde,  it  seems  like  a  dream,  seeing  you  here  in  this  strange 

{)Iace ;  it  seems  like  a  dream  to  be  here  myself.    I  came  without 
OSS  of  an  hour;  I  couldn't  do  any  more  than  that,  could  I? 


348  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

Elizabetli  has  not  been  a  good  sisier  to  me,  or  indeed  to  any  of 
us.  Her  prosperity  has  made  very  httle  difference  to  us ;  we 
went  on  living  our  old  dull  life  just  the  same  after  her  marriage, 
and  she  did  hardly  anything  to  brighten  it.  Even  long  ago, 
before  you  came  to  Hawleigh,  she  was  always  cold  and  unloving 
towards  me,  sneered  at  my  humble  efforts  to  do  right,  set  her- 
self up  against  me  in  the  strength  of  her  beauty." 

"  It  is  hardly  a  time  for  complaints  of  this  kind,"  said 
Mr.  Forde,  with  grave  displeasure.  "  Your  sister  is  in  great 
trouble." 

"  Have  I  not  come?  Am  I  not  here  to  be  with  her?  O, 
why  are  you  always  so  hard  upon  me,  Mr.  Forde  P  Just  the 
same  after  all  these  years.  I  would  do  anything  in  the  world 
for  her.     It  is  not  my  fault  if  her  married  life  is  unhappy." 

"  Do  not  let  us  waste  time  in  purposeless  talk.  1  have  a 
carriage  ready  to  take  you  to  your  sister's  house.  I  will  telJ 
you  everything  on  the  way." 

In  the  carriage  he  told  her  the  real  nature  of  her  sister's  ill- 
ness, the  ruin  that  had  befallen  that  bright  reckless  mind;  told 
her  his  hope  of  speedy  cure  in  a  case  where  there  was  no 
hereditary  taint,  no  shattered  constitution,  only  the  fever  and 
confusion  of  a  mind  ill  at  ease,  a  soul  seeking  peace  where  there 
was  no  peace.  He  told  her  of  his  confidence  in  the  happy 
influence  of  a  familiar  presence,  of  old  associations,  sisterly 
affection. 

Gertrude  was  inexpressibly  shocked ;  a  curious  stillness  crept 
over  her;  she  left  off  making  vague  attempts  to  explain  her 
own  conduct  in  relation  to  her  sister,  which  had  never  been 
called  into  question  by  Mr.  Forde ;  ceased  to  make  Httle  sidelong 
attacks  upon  Elizabeth  ;  but  became  mute,  with  the  aspect  of 
one  upon  whom  a  heavy  blow  has  fallen.  Only  when  they  were 
near  Slogh-na-Dyack  did  she  speak. 

"  Can  you  say  with  confidence  that  you  believe  she  will  re- 
cover? "  she  asked;  "  that  you  do  not  think  she  will  be — mad 
— allherhfe?" 

"  I  can  say  nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  answered  sadly.  "1 
can  only  say  that  I  try  to  put  my  trust  in  God  throughout  thia 
trial,  as  in  others  that  have  gone  before  it.  But  this  seems 
harder  than  the  rest." 

They  were  at  Slogh-na-Dyack  by  this  time ;  but  here  bitter 
disappointment,  a  disappointment  near  akin  to  despair,  awaited 
them,  for  upon  Gertrude  annonnoing  herself  as  Lady  Paulyn's 
sister,  and  requesting  to  be  takn-n  straight  to  the  invalid's 
apartments,  a  vacant-looking  flat-faced  footman  informed  her 
that  her  ladyship  had  left  Slogh-na-Dyack  for  the  South  just 
four-and  twenty  hours  ago. 

"  What  1 "  cried  Mr.  Forde,  who  was  standing  on  the  thres- 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  31-9 

hold  of  the  door,  while  Gertrude  stood  a  little  way  within, 
staring  helplessly  at  the  blank  face  of  the  footman.  "  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  Lady  Paulyn  was  allowed  to  travel  in  her 
etate  of  health  ?  " 

•'  Yes,  sir.    The  London  doctor  and  one  of  the  nurses  went 
rath,  her." 

"  They  went  with  her,  but  where  ?  " 

"  To  London,  I  believe,  sir.    As  far  as  I  could  make  out  from 
'jiat  was  said." 

"  Where  is  Miss  Disney  ?     Let  me  see  Misa  Disney." 

"  Miss  Disney  have  left  also,  sir." 

"  Then  let  me  see  some  one  who  can  tell  me  what  all  thia 
means.  This  lady  is  your  mistress's  sister,  who  has  travelled 
five  hundred  miles  to  see  her,  only  to  be  told  that  she  is  gone, 
no  one  knows  where.  Is  there  any  one  else  in  the  house  who 
can  explain  this  business  ?  " 

The  footman  shook  his  head  despondingly. 

"  There's  Colter  the  butler,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  he  might  know 
something,  and  there's  my  lady's  own  maid." 

"Let  me  see  her,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Forde;  whereupon  the  foot- 
man, always  with  a  despondent  air,  ushered  them  into  the 
library,  a  darksome  but  splendid  apartment,  which  the  Glasgow 
manufacturer  had  furnished  with  antique  carved  shelves  for 
books  that  had  never  been  supplied,  a  room  in  which  literature 
was  represented  by  a  waste-paper  basket,  a  what-not  crammed 
with  stale  newspapers,  a  Ruff's  Guide,  Post  and  Paddoch,  and 
three  or  four  numbers  of  Baih/s  Magazine. 

Here  Malcolm  Forde  paced  to  and  fro,  his  soul  shaken  to  its 
lowest  deep,  while  Gertrude  sat  in  a  huge  arm-chair,  and  cried 
feebly.  What  had  they  done  with  Elizabeth  ?  What  sinister 
motive  had  they  in  this  sudden  flight  ?  ^Vhat  had  they  done 
with  the  helpless  creature  who  had  come  to  him  for  refuge, 
casting  herself  upon  his  pity,  entreating  with  heart-piercing  ac- 
cents for  shelter  and  protection  ?  And  he  had  refused  to  shelter 
her.  The  fear  of  injuring  her  in  the  sight  of  the  world,  or  of 
widening  the  breach  between  her  and  her  husband,  had  been 
stronger  with  him  than  love  and  pity ;  the  anxious  desire  to  do 
his  duty  had  triumphed  over  the  voice  of  his  heart,  which 
had  said,  "  Claim  a  brother's  right  to  protect  her  in  her  afflic- 
tion, and  defy  the  world." 

He  had  done  that  which  he  had  deemed  the  only  thing  pos- 
sible for  him  to  do.  He  had  summoned  her  nearest  of  kin,  the 
sister  who  had  a  right  to  be  by  her  side  at  such  a  time,  even  in 
defiance  of  a  husband.  He  had  done  this,  and  behold!  it  wa» 
as  if  he  had  done  nothing  for  her.  Where  had  they  taken  hoi 
— on  what  dismal  journey  had  she  gone — with  a  nurse  and  & 
doctor?     His   heart  sank  as  he  brooded  upon  that  question. 


350  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

There  was  only  one  answer  that  presented  itself — an  answer 
that  was  horrible  to  think  of. 

The  door  was  opened  after  some  delay  by  Mr.  Colter,  the 
butler,  who  had  been  enjoying  the  morning  in  a  dressing-gown- 
and-slipper  condition,  loitering  over  a  late  breakfast  and  making 
the  most  of  the  family's  absence,  and  had  just  made  a  hasty 
toilet  in  order  to  come  to  the  front  and  see  what  was  meant  by 
Miss  Luttrell's  unlooked-for  appearance  on  the  scene.  Behind 
him  came  a  young  woman  with  a  nervous  air,  and  eyelids  that 
were  reddened  with  weeping. 

_"  This  young  person  is  Lady  Paulyn's  maid,  Sarah  Todd," 
said  the  butler  blandly.  "  I  have  sent  for  her  to  see  you,  sir, 
as  I  was  informed  you  had  expressed  a  wish  to  that  effect.  But 
there  is  no  information  she  can  give  you  about  my  lady  as  I 
don't  know  as  well  as  her.  I'm  sorry  you  should  have  made 
such  a  long  journey  for  nothink,  ma'am,"  he  added,  turning  to 
Miss  Luttrell,  "  but  if  you'd  wrote,  or  telegraphed,  the  trouble 
might  have  been  avided." 

"  I  want  toknow  all  about  this  business,  sir,"  said  Malcolm 
Forde  with  his  sternest  air.  "  At  whose  bidding  and  in  whose 
custody  was  Lady  Paulyn  removed  from  this  house?" 

"  By  the  border  of  her  medical  adviser,  sir,  and  under  his  pro- 
tection, with  a  nurse  halso  in  attendance  upon  her." 
"  Indeed !     Then  Lord  Paulyn  was  not  with  his  wife?" 
"  No,  sir.     My  lord  is  in  Invernesshire." 
"  What!    Then  it  was  in  his  absence  Lady  Paulyn  was  re- 
moved?" 

"  Certingly,  sir — which  the  removal  of  her  ladyship  had  been 
arranged  before  his  lordship  left  this  house.  It  was  his  lord- 
ship's wish  to  be  away  at  the  time — with  a  natural  deUckisy 
of  feehng." 

"  Where  has  Lady  Paulyn  been  taken  ?    To  her  house  in 
Park-lane?" 
"No,  sir." 

Here  Sarah  Todd,  the  maid,  dissolved  into  tears ;  at  which  the 
butler  stared  sternly  at  her,  informing  her  that  the  lady  and 
gentleman  wanted  none  of  her  snivelling. 

"  Pray  do  not  scold  her,"  said  Mr.  Forde.  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
that  she  can  feel  for  her  mistress.  And  now  perhaps  you  will 
be  good  enough  to  tell  me  where  Lady  Paulyn  has  been  taken 
—if  not  to  her  town  house?" 

"  That,  sir,  is  a  question  which  I  do  not  feel  myself  at  liberty 
to  hanswer." 

"You  need  not  stand  upon  punctilio.  You  can  waive  the 
natural  delicacy  of  mind  wiuch  you  no  doubt  share  with  your 
master.  I  can  guess  the  worst  you  can  tell  me.  Lady  Paulyu 
has  been  taken  to  a  private  K?dhouse." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  351 

"  I  believe,  sir,  it  is  somethink  in  the  way  of  an  asylum. 
Strictly  private,  of  course,  and  everythink  upon  the  footing  of 
a  gentleman's  'ouse,"  replied  the  butler,  softening,  with  a  view 
to  a  possible  donation,  slipped  unobtrusively  into  his  palm  pre- 
sently, when  he  was  escorting  these  visitors  back  to  their  car- 
riage. 

"  Can  you  give  me  the  exact  address  of  the  house?" 

"  No,  sir.  Everythink  was  kep  extraordinary  close.  I  heard 
it  was  somewheres  near  London.  Even  the  nurse  didn't  know 
where  she  was  gone." 

"One  of  the  nurses  went  with  Lady  Paulyn,  you  say? 
Which  was  she — the  tall  woman  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  what  became  of  the  other  ?" 

"  She  left  by  the  same  train,  sir,  to  go  back  to  her  own 
home." 

"  Do  you  know  her  addreae  P" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Nor  jOTi  ?"  turning  to  the  maid. 

"No,  sir.  But  she  came  from  an  institution  somewhere  near 
the  Strand.     You  might  hear  of  her  perhaps  there." 

"  Will  you  obUge  me  by  writing  down  the  names  of  both 
nurses  on  a  slip  of  paper?"  said  Mr.  Forde. 

There  were  an  inkstand  and  portfolio  on  the  table,  and  the 
girl  sat  down  immediately  and  wrote  two  names  in  a  neat 
Bchool-girl  hand. 

" '  Mrs.  Barber,'  that's  the  tall  nurse  who  went  with  Lady 
Paulyn,  sir.     '  Mrs.  Gurbage,'  that's  the  one  who  went  home." 

"  Thanks.  I  must  try  to  find  Mrs.  Gurbage.  And  now  tell 
this  lady  all  you  can.  I'll  leave  you  with  her  for  a  few  minutes 
while  I  talk  to  Mr.  Colter  in  the  hall.  Tell  her  how  Lady 
Paulyn  was  when  she  left  this  place." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  sorrowfully.  "  There's  very  little  I 
can  tell,  sir,  though  I  loved  my  lady  dearly,  for  she  was  always 
a.  dear  good  mistress  to  me.  A  little  hasty  sometimes,  but  O, 
80  generous  and  kind.  But  from  the  time  she  began  to  be  so 
ill  they  wouldn't  let  me  go  near  her,  though  I  know  she  used 
to  ask  for  me,  for  I've  stood  outside  her  door  sometimes  for  half- 
an-hour  at  a  time  and  listened  and  heard  her  call  me,  and  then 
cry  so  pitifully,  '  Let  me  have  some  one  with  me  that  I  know — 
for  God's  sake  send  me  some  one  I  know !' " 

The  girl  remained  with  Miss  Luttrell,  while  Mr.  Forde  and 
the  butler  went  out  into  the  hall  and  waited  for  them.  But 
there  was  little  more  to  be  extracted  either  from  man  or  maid. 

They  only  knew  that  after  the  fever  Lady  Paulyn  had  gone 
out  of  her  mind.  She  had  suffered  an  attack  of  the  same  kind 
after  her  baby's  death — only  not  so  severe  an  attack.     The 


rtg2  Strangers  and  Pilffinms. 

dottors  had  come  backwards  and  forwards,  and  it  had  ended  by 
her  ladyship  being  removed  under  the  care  of  one  of  them— 
whose  very  name  the  butler  had  never  heard. 

" Everythink  was  kep  80  close,"  he  repeated;  "and  it  would 
have  been  as  much  as  our  places  were  worth  to  show  any  euros- 
sity." 

Thus,  after  a  little  while,  they  left  Slogh-na-Dyack  in  darkest 
ignorance,  and  Mr.  Forde  took  Miss  Luttrell  to  the  manse,  to 
give  her  rest  and  refreshment  before  their  next  move,  which  must 
be  to  London. 

The  woman  he  loved  better  than  all  things  else  in  this  lowei 
world  was  hidden  away  from  him  in  a  madhouse.  Hard  trial 
of  his  faith,  who  had  made  duty  his  rule  of  life.  If  he  had 
followed  the  dictates  of  his  heart  that  night,  he  might  have 
found  her  some  safe  refuge — might  have  saved  her  from  this 
living  grave.  With  a  bitter  pang  he  recalled  that  last  con- 
temptuous look  which  she  had  flung  him  when  she  accused  him 
of  cowardice. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

••  That  -was  my  true  love's  voice.  Where  is  he  ?  I  heard  him  call.  I 
am  free !  Nobody  shall  hinder  me.  I  will  fly  to  his  neck,  and  lie  on  his 
bosom.  He  called  Margaret  !  He  stood  upon  the  threshold,  lu  the 
midst— through  the  howling  and  chattering  of  hell— through  the  grim, 
devilish  scoffing— I  knew  the  sweet,  the  loving  tone  again." 

A  SPACIOUS  old-fashioned  mansion  north  of  London,  among  the 
green  byroads  between  Barnet  and  Watford ;  a  noble  old  house, 
red  brick,  of  the  Anne  period,  with  centre  and  wings  making 
three  sides  of  a  quadrangle ;  a  stately  old  house,  lying  remote 
from  the  high-road,  and  surrounded  by  pleasure-grounds  and 
park— the  latter  somewhat  flat  and  dreary,  but  on  a  high  level, 
with  ghmpses  of  a  fine  landscape  here  and  there  through  a 
break  in  the  wood.  The  house  had  belonged  to  a  law-lord  of 
the  Augustan  age  of  good  Queen  Anne;  a  once  famous  law- 
lord,  whose  portrait  in  wig  and  state-robes  looked  down  from 
the  panelled  walls,  and  with  divers  other  effigies  of  his  wife  and 
ihildren  went  among  the  fixtures  of  the  house,  and  was  flung 
into  the  bargain  on  very  easy  terms,  among  crystal  chandeliers, 
aniique  fenders  and  fire-irona,  shutter-bell*,  and  other  conveni- 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  353 

ences  of  a  bygone  age.  From  the  law-lord  the  mansion  had 
descended  to  a  wholesale  grocer  of  the  Sir-Baal  am  type,  who 
thought  "  two  puddings  "  luxuries,  and  rolled  ponderously  to 
Mincing-lane  every  day  in  his  glass  coach.  Then  came  an 
Anglo-Indian  colonel,  enriched  by  the  plunder  of  silver-gated 
cities  and  Brahminical  temples,  who  held  high-jinks  in  the  old 
house,  and  ended  by  throwing  himself  from  an  upper  window  in 
a  fit  of  delirium  tremens.  This  helped  to  give  the  house  a  bad 
name,  and  together  with  its  curiously  isolated  position,  remote 
from  all  modes  of  conveyance — an  extreme  inconvenience  in  an 
age  when  everybody  requires  to  be  conveyed — tended  to  depress 
its  market  value ;  whereupon  it  was  bought  a  dead  bargain  by  a 
speculative  solicitor,  who  tried  to  let  i'»  for  some  years  without 
success,  during  which  period  the  inhabitants  of  Hetheridge,  a 
little  village  half  a  mile  distant,  were  confirmed  in  their  convic- 
tion that  Hetheridge  Hall,  the  mansion  in  question,  was  the 
favourite  resort  of 

"  Hags,  ghosts,  and  sprites 
That  haunts  the  night." 

In  due  time,  however,  the  place  came  under  the  notice  of  Dr. 
Cameron,  who,  as  his  patients  increased  in  number,  required  a 
larger  mansion  than  that  in  which  his  father  had  begun  busi- 
ness, and  who,  finding  in  Hetheridge  and  its  hall  a  situation  and 
an  abode  at  once  eligible  and  inexpensive,  made  haste  to  secure 
house  and  groiinds  on  a  long  lease,  getting  the  portraits  of  the 
law-lord  and  his  olive-branches  Hung  in  for  an  old  song,  as  well 
as  grounds  furnished  with  some  of  the  finest  specimens  of  the 
fir  tribe  in  the  county  of  Herts. 

So  the  noble  music-room,  where  the  bewigged  and  bepowdered 
family  of  the  law-lord  smirked  and  simpered  on  the  panelled 
walls,  and  where  the  law-lord  himself  had  entertained  the  elite 
of  the  country-side  with  stately  old-fashioned  hospitality,  was 
now  given  up  to  the  weekly  junketings  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
of  more  or  less  disordered  intellect ;  ladies  upon  whose  head- 
gear, and  gentlemen  upon  whose  collars  and  cravats,  eccentri- 
city had  set  its  seal.  Here  once  a  week  throughout  the  slow 
long  winter  the  doctor's  patients  pranced  and  capered  through 
First  Sets  and  Lancers  and  Caledonians ;  while  the  younger 
and  more  fashionable  among  them  even  essayed  round  dances. 
Here,  in  full  view  of  those  stately  effigies  of  the  patch-and- 
powder  joeriod,  mild  refreshment  in  the  way  of  white-wine  negu» 
and  raspbeiry-jam  tarts  was  dispensed  between  nine  o'cLjck 
and  ten;  when  the  junketers  dispersed  more  or  less  unwillingly 
to  their  several  chambers,  under  close  guard  of  nurses  and 
keepers,  who  drovti  them  along  passages  and  up  staircases  Uke 
a  flock  of  sheep. 


354  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

The  traveller,  lingering  a  few  moments  by  the  park  fence  \a 
look  down  the  long  straight  avenue  at  the  grim  red  facade  of 
Hetheridge  Hall,  was  apt,  knowing  the  stoi-y  of  the  place,  to 
fancy  dire  scenes  of  horror  within  those  solid  old  walls  :  secret 
dungeon  chambers  underground,  in  which  wretched  creatures, for- 
gotten by  all  the  world  except  one  brutal  guardian,  languished 
in  sempiternal  darkness,  chained  to  a  damp  black  wall,  against 
which  the  slimy  rats  pushed  noiselessly  to  fight  for  the  madman's 
scanty  meal;  dreary  windowless  rooms  in  the  heart  of  the  house, 
approached  by  secret  passages  known  of  but  by  a  few,  where 
pale  white-haired  women  pined  in  a  lifelong  silence.  But  there 
were  neither  robora  nor  piombi  in  Dr.  Cameron's  prosperous 
and  comfortable  estabHshment ;  and  the  only  horrors  within  that 
melancholy  mansion  were  the  gloomy  thoughts  of  those  among 
its  occupants  who  were  not  quite  mad  enough  to  be  unconscious 
of  their  state  ;  or  the  black  despair  of  those  in  whom  madness 
was  a  thing  of  violence  and  terror,  a  ceaseless  fever  of  the  brain, 
like  a  caldron  for  ever  at  boiling-point,  full  of  fancies  grim  and 
loathsome  as  the  constituents  of  a  witch's  hell-broth. 

Happily  for  the  doctor  there  was  a  good  deal  of  comfortable 
easy-going  lunacy  in  his  establishment,  patients  who  liked  their 
dinner,  and  kept  up  their  spirits  by  quarrelling  with  each  other 
and  reviling  their  nurses.  Some  of  these  custodians  were  amiable 
young  women  enough,  and  really  kind  to  their  charges;  but 
there  was  another  class  of  attendants  who,  finding  life  in  an 
asylum  rather  a  dull  business,  took  it  out  of  the  patients,  and 
acquired  a  diabolical  skill  in  the  administration  of  sly  pinches 
and  invisible  squeezes  in  iDublic ;  while  in  private  their  mode  of 
remonstrance  with  a  refractory  or  fretful  patient  took  the  more 
open  form  of  bangs  and  kicks.  Any  bruises  or  abrasions  re- 
sulting from  this  rough-and-ready  style  of  argument  were  easily 
accounted  for  as  having  been  self-inflicted  by  the  patient, 
"  poor  thing."  ^ 

The  doctor  was  a  man  of  considerable  benevolence,  who  con- 
ducted his  house  on  a  liberal  scale,  gave  his  patients  airy  rooms, 
ample  service,  and  good  living ;  and  only  failed  to  secure  them 
from  the  possibility  of  ill-usage  for  the  simple  reason  that  h© 
was  not  ubiquitous.  He  did  not  live  at  Hetheridge,  but  drove 
down  from  the  West-end  once  or  twice  a  week  in  his  brougham, 
saw  a  few  particular  cases,  smiled  his  soothing  smile  upon  the 
victims  of  mental  delusion,  dexterously  fenced  those  strange 
direct  questions  which  madness  is  apt  to  put  to  its  guardian, 
walked  through  the  public  rooms,  made  a  good  many  inquiries, 
looked  about  him  in  a  general  way,  took  a  chop  and  a  glass  or 
two  of  dry  sherry  with  his  subordinate — the  medical  sujierinten- 
dent  at  Hetheridge— and  then  went  back  to  his  metropolitan 
practice,  which  was  a  large  one. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  355 

In  tliis  strange  abode  Elizabeth  awoke  one  morning  from  a 
long  troubled  dream  of  swift  journeying  through  tlie  land,  bcund 
lilie  a  ca2:)tive  in  a  corner  of  the  railway  carriage ;  for  had  she 
not  resisted  this  transit,  opposing  her  sudden  removal  from 
Slogh-na-Dyack  with  what  little  force  she  had?  whereby  the 
physician,  kindly  as  his  nature  was,  felt  himself  called  upon 
to  exercise  his  authority  with  a  certain  severity  of  aspect,  and 
to  treat  Lady  Paulyn  as  a  naughty  child  requiring  nursery 
discipline. 

Darker  than  the  darkest  dream  that  ever  visited  the  couch  of 
fever  was  that  rapid  journey  from  north  to  south.  The  swiftness 
of  the  transit  was  in  itself  an  agony  to  that  enfeebled  brain ;  the 
perpetual  monotonous  thump  of  the  engine,  like  the  throbbing 
of  some  giant  heart  beating  itself  to  death ;  the  ceaseless  shifting 
of  the  landscape — moor  and  mountain,  valley  and  wood  Hitting 
past  behind  the  blinding  rain,  like  shadows  moving  in  a  phantom 
world ;  all  these  things  were  torment  to  that  distracted  mind. 
No  Avarning  of  the  impending  journey  had  been  given  to  the 
patient,  no  hint  of  impending  change  in  her  mode  of  life ;  for 
doctors  and  nurses  alike  concurred  in  treating  her  as  if  she  had 
been  a  sick  child.  From  the  hour  in  which  hallucination  set  in, 
this  infantine  treatment  had  been  religiously  observed.  The 
possibility  of  a  bright  intellect  struggling  in  an  agony  of  per- 
plexed thought  behind  the  dim  clouds  that  obscured  it  was 
utterly  ignored.  Because  the  patient  thought  wrongly  upon 
some  points,  she  was  set  down  at  once  as  incapable  of  reasonable 
thought  upon  any  point.  Left  in  the  dismal  blankness  of  isola- 
tion— no  friendly  word  whispered  in  her  ear,  no  tidings  of  the 
outer  world  permitted  to  dispute  the  dominion  of  wild  imagin- 
ings— her  weakened  brain  had  been  wearied  by  perpetual  wonder 
at  her  own  state,  and  why  she  was  thus  cut  off  from  all  com- 
munion with  her  kind. 

On  the  morning  of  the  journey  she  had  been  dressed  Uke  a 
child  who  is  taken  for  an  airing,  her  travelling  dress  hustled 
ujjon  her  by  the  nurse's  impatient  hands,  dragged  down  the 
stairs  against  her  will — protesting  vehemently,  in  wildest  de- 
spair, as  if  moved  by  some  prophetic  sense  of  impending  doom. 
Then  came  a  dream-like  apathy,  in  which  thought  was  not,  only 
the  acute  agony  of  shattered  nerves. 

For  some  time  after  her  arrival  at  Hetheridge  Park,  Lady 
Paulyn  was  pronounced  unfit  for  the  social  circle,  as  there  re- 
presented by  a  small  assemblage  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  of 
various  habits  and  opinions,  whom  the  world,  as  represented  by 
doctors  and  commissioners  of  lunacy,  had  agreed  in  pronouncing 
of  unsound  mind.  They  were  not,  on  the  whole,  widely  different 
from  other  ladies  and  gentlemen,  nor  did  their  lunacy  exhibit 
those  salient  points  which  afforded  material  lor  the  pen  of  a 


356  Strangers  and  PUgrimtt. 

Warren  or  a  Gilbert ;  in  fact,  they  did  little  to  distinguisli  them« 
selves  from  the  vulgar  herd  of  the  sane. 

They  were  a  shade  more  disagreeable  than  the  outside  world, 
or  exhibited  their  various  ill-tempers  more  freely ;  grumbled  a 
great  deal  upon  every  possible  subject,  and  each  pursued  his  or 
her  line  of  thought  without  reference  to  external  circumstances, 
with  a  harmless  egotism  not  uncommon  even  in  the  outer  world. 

But  to  these  specimens  of  the  later  stage  of  Dr.  Cameron's 
process,  which  were  in  a  manner  the  bedded-out  plants  of  his 
collection,  removed  from  the  forcing-house  or  the  hotbed  of 
solitary  confinement  into  the  open,  Lady  Paulyn  was  not  yet 
considered  fit  to  be  introduced.  Such  at  least  was  the  opinion 
of  Dr.  Cameron  and  the  house-surgeon,  who  took  their  opinions 
from  the  nurses.  Their  own  visits  to  Lady  Paulyn's  rooms  only 
showed  them  a  motionless  figure  in  an  arm-chair,  with  pale  de- 
jected face,  and  loosened  hair  tossed  back  from  a  weary-looking 
brow ;  a  haggard  face,  and  wild  tearless  eyes  which  gazed  at  them 
wonderingly  out  of  a  dream-world. 

The  system  in  this  case  was  naturally  the  system  usual  in 
all  other  cases ;  what  physician  could  chop  and  change  his 
treatment  to  suit  the  idiosyncrasies  of  every  new  patient .''  The 
same  smoothing  smile  which  Dr.  Cameron,  hke  the  sun  which 
shines  ahke  upon  the  just  and  the  unjust,  shed  upon  a  crazy 
stockbroker  whose  mental  balance  had  tottered  in  unison  with 
his  balance  at  his  banker's,  under  the  cumulative  burden  of 
contango,  he  shed  also  upon  Lady  Paulyn.  The  gentle  gesture 
with  which  he  smoothed"  the  roughened  locks  of  the  wealthy 
grocer's  wife,  who  had  succumbed  to  a  too  devoted  attention 
to  the  wine-and-spirit  department  of  her  husband's  business, 
was  the  same  touch,  half  patronising,  half  caressing,  which 
he  laid  like  a  good  man's  blessing  upon  Elizabeth's  fevered 
forehead.  He  had  even  a  httle  sympathetic  murmur,  a  faint 
humming,  as  of  a  benevolent  bee,  which  he  bestowed  alike 
upon  all  first-class  patients.  He  perhaps  hummed  a  trifle  less 
for  the  second-class  boarders,  but  even  for  them  he  had  kindly 
pitying  smiles,  but  always  as  of  a  superior  order  of  being,  whose 
brain  had  been  constructed  ujaon  quite  another  model,  and 
was  altogether  a  difi'erent  kind  of  machine,  not  by  any  pos- 
sibility to  be  disorganised. 

Dr.  Cameron,  devoting  five  minutes  twice  a  week  or  so  to  this 
very  interesting  case,  was  greeted  by  the  patient  only  with  a 
despairing  silence  and  mute  wondering  looks  from  troubled 
eye.s, — wonder  at  this  period  predominating  over  every  other 
sen&ation — wonder  why  she  was  in  that  place;  why  he,  Mal- 
colm, had  so  utterly  deserted  her;  why  all  her  surroundings 
had  undergone  a  change  so  sudden  and  complete  that  it  seemed 
to  her  as  if  she  was  an  infant  newly  born  into  a  new  world— 


Strangers  and  Pilyrims.  357 

wonder  wliich  was  mute,  for  -when  she  tried  to  speak  strange 
words  came,  and  tlie  power  of  language  seemed  to  have  left  her, 
except  in  spasmodic  outbursts  of  complaint,  complaint  addressed 
to  the  bare  walls  or  to  her  adamantine  nurses.  Dr.  Cameron 
seeing  her  in  this  state,  and  being  duly  informed  by  loquacious 
nurses  that  Lady  Paulyn  was  violent  and  hysterical,  began  to 
think  the  chances  of  speedy  cure  more  than  doubtful.  The  patient 
talked  to  herself  a  great  deal,  her  nurses  told  him,  and  ob- 
Etinately  refused  to  sleep,  in  which  peculiar  temj^er  she  was  the 
worst  subject  they  had  ever  had  to  deal  with. 

"  "We  don't  get  wink  of  sleep  for  hours  at  a  stretch,"  com- 
plained nurse  Barber,  of  the  grenadier  aspect.  "Talking  to 
herself  all  night  long,  drumming  with  her  fingers  on  the  wall, 
and  that  restless !  Turn  and  turn  and  toss  and  toss  from  side  to 
side,  and  sigh  and  moan  in  a  way  that  goes  to  your  very 
marrow !  I  think  for  troublesomeness  she's  about  the  worst 
patient  I  ever  laid  eyes  on." 

"Does  she  ever  speak  of  her  husband  nowP"  asked  the 
doctor,  inquiring  for  some  token  of  awakening  memory. 

"  Lord  bless  you,  no,  sir  ;  and  if  we  say  anything  about  him, 
stands  us  out,  up  hill  and  down  dale,  that  there's  no  such 
person,  and  that  she  never  was  married.  Once  when  I  men- 
tioned his  name,  thinkin'  as  that  might  bring  her  to  reason,  she 
looked  at  me  with  a  foolish  smile,  twisting  and  untwisting  her 
hair  round  her  fingers  all  the  time,  and  said  'Poor  Lord  Paulyn! 
Yes,  he  was  in  love  with  me  once,  poor  fellow !  But  that's  all 
over.  I  was  true  to  Malcolm.'  As  to  the  way  she  carries  on 
about  that  Malcolm,  it's  downright  wicked." 

"  So  Dr.  Cameron  looked  kindly  at  the  troublesome  patient, 
hummed  and  ha'd  a  little  in  his  mild  way,  which  meant  that  he 
could  make  nothing  of  her,  murmured  something  professional  tc 
himself  about  cerebral  disturbance,  like  a  clock  which  strikes  in 
an  empty  room  from  the  mere  habit  of  striking,  and  departed, 
knowing  just  as  much  about  that  curious  mystery  the  human 
mind  m  this  case  as  he  knew  in  the  case  of  the  drunken  grocer's 
wife,  or  the  demented  stockjobber,  prescribing  almost  exactly 
the  same  treatment,  with  a  little  difference  as  to  diet  perhaps, 
since  this  was  a  more  delicate  organisation — Roussillon  instead 
of  bottled  stout,  the  breast  of  a  chicken  instead  of  a  rumpsteak 
— departed,  and  loft  Elizabeth  in  the  utter  darkness  of  a  lonely 
room  and  in  the  power  of  the  nurses  she  abhorred. 

The  lottery  of  nurses  is  not  unlike  that  lottery  to  which  sonif 
atrabilious  misogynist  has  compared  to  marriage.  It  is  lik^- 
dipping  for  a  single  eel  in  a  bag  of  snakes.  Elizabeth's  first 
draw  had  resulted  in  snakes.  Her  two  nurses  were  first  the 
grenadier  woman,  with  the  muscles  of  a  gladiator,  not  a  badly- 
disposed  person  perhaps,  could  one  have  arrived  at  the  motive 


^^8  '"  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

principle  of  ber  nature,  but  using  her  enormous  strength  half 
unconsciouisly,  and  having  a  fixed  opinion  that  physical  force 
was  the  only  treatment  for  a  mind  askew ;  secondly,  a  vain 
pretty  girl,  who  enjoyed  a  flirtation  with  a  keeper  or  gentle- 
manly lunatic  on  the  high-road  to  recovery  better  than  the 
solitude  of  the  patient's  chamber,  who  had  adopted  the  position 
of  madhouse  nurse  because  it  paid  better  than  pleasanter  modes 
of  industry,  and  who  wreaked  her  disgust  for  her  calling  upon 
the  subject  of  her  care.  She  was  morally  worse  than  the 
grenadier,  heartless  and  shallow  beyond  all  measure,  and  mali- 
ciously gi'atified  at  having  a  lady  at  her  mercy. 

Thus  followed  the  long  days  and  the  longer  nights ;  nights 
for  the  greater  part  utterly  without  sleep,  long  watches  in  the 
dim  light  of  the  night-lamp,  watches  through  which  all  the 
imps  and  demons  of  madness  held  their  horrid  Sabbath  in  that 
one  unresting  brain ;  nights  in  which  the  patient's  mind  was 
like  a  rudderless  ship  driven  thousands  of  miles  out  of  her 
course,  or  like  a  star  that  has  been  loosed  from  its  natural  station 
in  heaven  to  reel  tempest-driven  through  infinite  space.  Who 
dare  follow  the  thoughts  of  that  distracted  brain,  the  inextrica- 
ble tangle  of  waking  dreams  and  shreds  of  memory,  going  back 
to  childhood's  cloudiest  recollections  of  a  world  that  seemed 
sweeter  than  the  world  known  in  later  years  ?  Nor  were  those 
silent  nights  voiceless  for  her.  Voices  that  she  loved  spoke  to 
her  from  the  corridor  outside  her  door,  only  divided  from  her  by 
that  fatal  locked  door.  Sometimes  it  was  her  mother's  gentle 
half-plaintive  tone,  as  of  one  who  had  always  found  Ufe  a  thing 
to  grumble  at;  sometimes  her  baby's  tiny  voice  calling  with  hia 
first  broken  word,  the  tender  cry  she  had  been  so  proud  to  hear ; 
sometimes  her  father's  genial  tones ;  for  in  this  long  dream  of 
madnf  &d  death  was  not.  But  oftenest  of  all  came  the  voice  of 
Malcolm  Forde.  He  was  always  near  her,  shielding  and  con- 
soling her.  There  were  nights  when  he  would  not  speak,  but 
she  was  not  the  less  convinced  of  his  presence.  She  knelt  by 
that  cruei  door  ia  the  dead  of  the  night — while  the  nurses, 
stretched  grimly  on  their  truckle-beds,  kept  guai'd  over  her  aa 
they  slept — and  laid  her  head  against  the  panel,  and  felt  that 
her  loved  ones  were  near  her ;  felt  as  if  their  very  breath  shed  a 
gentle  warmth  through  the  magnetic  wood,  and  melted  the  ice 
at  her  heavy  heaii.  She  was  as  certain  of  their  vicinity  as  she 
has  ever  been  of  any  fact  in  her  life.  She  never  doubted,  never 
questioned  how  they  had  come  there,  wondei-ed  at  nothing 
except  why  she  was  separated  from  them,  and  this  severanc* 
she  came  by  and  by  to  ascribe  to  the  settled  enmity  of  her 
nurses. 

With  the  gray  light  of  morning  that  dream  would  vanish,  and 
?ive  place  to  another  fancy,  or  sometimes  to  a  period  of  dull 


I  Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  .359 

BpatTiy,  an  absolute  blank,  in  which  perhaps  the  brain  rested 
after  its  nightly  fever.  She  was  quiet  enough  in  the  day,  the 
nurses  admitted  to  each  other,  whereby  they  contrived  to  steal 
various  hours  for  their  own  amusements,  gossip  or  flirtation  as 
the  case  might  be,  while  the  patient  sat  alone  and  stared  at  the 
fire,  whose  dangerous  properties  were  guarded  by  a  large  wire 
screen.  Against  this  screen  Elizabeth  leant,  and  looked  into 
the  fire,  which  seemed  the  most  sympathic  thing  in  her  naiTow 
world,  and  struck  vsdld  chords  on  the  wires  of  the  guard,  and 
imagined  the  music  that  should  have  answered  to  her  touch, 
and  even  played  some  simple  melody  of  days  gone  by — "  Vedrai 
carino,"  or  "  Voi  che  sapete." 

No  one  essayed  to  help  her  back  to  sense  and  memory.  Thj 
doctors  came  and  looked  at  her,  and  patted  her  on  the  head, 
and  passed  from  before  her  sight  like  the  shifting  shadows  of  a 
magic-lantern,  and  had  about  as  much  meaaing  for  her.  No  (sne 
tried  to  awaken  her  senses  from  their  long  dream  with  books  or 
genial  talk,  with  music,  or  pictures,  or  flowers,  or  any  of  those 
familiar  things  that  might  have  touched  the  mystic  chords  of 
memory.  There  was  a  certain  routine  for  all  patients  at 
Hetheridge  Hall,  where  madness  was  cured,  or  taken  care  of, 
upon  a  wholesale  system,  not  admitting  of  minute  differences, 
A  comfortable  open  carriage  was  maintained  for  the  use  of  the 
first-class  patients,  and  these,  Avhen  pronounced  well  enough 
for  such  indulgence,  were  allowed  to  commune  with  nature  daily 
during  an  hour's  drive,  generally  on  the  same  turnpike-road. 
A  glimpse  of  the  outer  world  which  raised  strange  vague  long- 
ings in  some  distracted  minds,  whilst  for  other  more  sluggish 
spirits  the  wide  wintry  landscape  and  the  distant  dome  of 
St.  Paul's,  seen  dimly  athwai-t  a  blue-gray  cloud,  seemed  no 
more  than  a  picture  flashed  before  their  troubled  eyes — a 
picture  of  fields  and  hedgerows  and  sky  and  cloud  dimly  re- 
membered in  some  former  stage  of  existence. 

During  the  first  six  weelcs  of  her  residence  at  Hetheridge — 
time  of  which  the  patient  herself  kept  no  count,  but  which 
seemed  rather  a  vast  blank  interval,  a  dismal  pause  wherein  life 
came  to  a  standstill,  than  so  many  days  and  nights — Lady 
Paulyn  was  pronounced  too  weak  for  out-of-door  exercise  of 
any  kind  whatever,  and  in  this  period  she  scarcely  saw  the 
sky.  It  was  there  certainly — the  blue  vault  of  heaven — visible 
from  the  upper  j^art  of  her  window,  the  lower  half  being  kept 
closely  shuttered  lest  she  should  do  herself  a  mischief;  for 
Nurse  Barber  remembered  and  dwelt  upon  that  little  episode  at 
Slogh-na-Dyack  when  she  had  sought  to  force  herself  out  of  the 
window.  The  sky  was  there,  witliin  reach  of  her  dull  eyes,  and 
she  did  not  look  up  at  it.  Her  brain  was  a  medley  of  old 
thoughts,  a  chaos  of  lu any-coloured  scraps  and  shreds,  like  a 


360  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

good  housekeeper's  rag-bag.  All  her  married  life— with  its 
Bocial  triumphs,  its  unbroken  brilliancy,  its  splendour  and 
extravagance — was  as  if  it  had  never  been ;  and  young 
memories,  childish  fancies,  and  the  days  when  her  first  and 
only  love  ripened  into  passion,  usurped  her  mind.  Madness, 
which  in  its  worst  folly  has  a  curious  tendency  to  hit  upon 
universal  truths,  revealed  the  unquenchable  power  of  a  first 
poetic  love — a  love  which,  pure  as  the  vestal's  sacred  fire,  burns 
with  its  quiet  light  through  all  the  storms  of  hfe,  and  grows 
brighter  as  the  pilgrim's  path  descends  the  valley  where  the 
shadows  thicken  on  the  border-land  of  hfe  and  death. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

*•  Hast  thou  no  care  of  me  ?     Shall  I  abide 
In  this  dull  world,  which  in  thy  absence  is 
No  better  than  a  sty  ?  " 

ToNGATABOO  and  Taheiti— or  the  Tongataboo  and  Taheiti  of  the 
da.y — had  to  wait  the  return  of  their  pastor.  Savage  chief- 
tains, holding  council  in  the  domestic  seclusion  of  their 
matting  with  their  wives  and  families,  could  but  lament  the 
absence  of  that  white- skinned  teacher  whom  at  his  first 
coming  they  had  been  disposed  to  treat  as  a  god.  That 
autumn-tide  did  not  see  IMalcolm  Forde's  return  to  the  South- 
!Sea  Islands.  For  a  little  while,  at  least,  even  duty  must  be  iu 
abeyance,  his  place  must  wait  for  him.  The  society  for  which 
he  had  worked  knew  him  well  enough  to  know  that  he  was 
thoroughly  in  earnest— that  he  would  return  in  due  time,  and 
complete  the  labour  he  had  begun,  and  widen  the  area  of  his 
labours,  and  faint  not  until  Death  should  say  to  him,  "  Thus  far, 
and  no  farther,  shalt  thou  journey,  O  pilgrim  and  messenger!" 
_  Meanwhile  he  stayed  in  England  to  do  something  very  near 
his  heart,  to  watch  and  pray  for  the  woman  he  loved,  and 
whom,  as  it  seemed,  all  the  world  except  himself  had  abandoned 
tf]  bitterest  fate.  But  for  him  Gertrude  Luttrell  would  have 
yielded  helplessly,  nervelessly,  almost  placidly  to  the  force  of 
circumstances — would  have  meekly  accepted  the  fact  that 
her  sister  had  been  transferred  to  a  lunatic  asylum  as  a 
melancholy  necessity,  against  which  there  could  be  no  appeal, 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  3G1 

beyond  wliicli  there  could  be  but    tbe  smallest  margin  for 
hope. 

But  Malcolme  Ford  was  not  inclined  to  take  things  so  patiently. 
He  came  straightway  to  London  with  Miss  Luttrell,  saw  Mrs. 
Chevenis,  whose  malady — chronic  neuralgia — seemed  hardly  so 
severe  or  tangible  an  affliction  as  to  justify  her  refusal  to  cc/me 
to  her  niece's  rescue,  and  who,  in  this  sad  crisis  of  her  favourite 
niece's  life,  had  little  help  of  any  kind  to  offer,  and  seemed 
chieily  tormented  by  a  melancholy  foreboding,  that  it,  meaning 
Elizabeth's  madness,  would  get  into  the  papers. 

"Eveiything  does  get  into  the  papers  sooner  or  later,"  she 
said  despondently.  "  I'm  sure  there's  no  such  thing  as  the 
eanctity  of  private  life  for  people  of  position.  I  shall  never 
take  up  my  Moj-ning  Post  without  a  shudder  from  this  time 
forward." 

"  Had  we  not  better  think  of  how  we  are  to  save  your  niec( 
from  the  anguish  of  her  present  situation  rather  than  ot 
keeping  the  fact  out  of  the  Morning  Fost  ?  "  said  Mr.  Forde. 
"  It  might  be  necessary  even  for  us  to  appeal  to  the  Press  for 
help,  if  we  found  no  other  way  of  rescuing  her." 

"  0  Mr.  Forde !  "  moaned  "Mrs.  Chevenix,  applying  herself 
mechanically  to  her  scent-bottle;  "don't  pray  talk  about  the 
anguish  of  her  situation.  We  have  no  reason  to  suppose_  that 
she  is  unhappy.  With  my  nephew  Lord  Paulyn's  splendid  in- 
come she  would,  of  course,  be  sure  of  the  very  highest  form  of 
treatment ;  every  advantage  which  wealth  could  provide." 

"We  will  take  that  for  granted,  if  you  like.  But  she  is  in 
the  hands  of  strangers,  and  even  her  sister  does  not  know 
where  or  with  whom.  The  fitful  fever  of  the  brain  whiclr 
succeeded  fever  of  the  body  has  been  set  down  as  madness,  and 
in  that  state  of  mental  exaltation — every  sense  intensified,  her 
capacity  for  suffering  increased  twentyfold  —  she  has  been 
handed  over  to  strangers,  whose  interests  will  be  best  served  by 
her  permanent  estrangement.  Say  that  they  are  conscientious 
and  will  do  their  best  to  cure  her,  will  the  best  they  can  do 
counterbalance  the  horror  of  that  sudden  removal  to  an  entirely 
strange  place,  and  the  banishment  of  every  human  creature 
and  every  object  with  which  she  was  familiar  ?  Is  not  such  a 
Bhock  eminently  calculated  to  turn  temporary  hallucination 
into  life-long  madness  ?  I  am  almost  distracted  when  I  think 
of  what  h-is  been  done  ! "  cried  Malcolm,  starting  from  his 
ehair,  and  pacing  the  Saton-place  drawing-room — the  room 
ivhich  seeiTied  destined  only  to  witness  his  misery.  _ 

Mrs.  Chev-'?nix  sighed,  and  again  sought  relief  from_  the 
Bcent-bottle,  .st  from  one  end  and  then  the  other,  as  if  in 
aromatic  vinegar  tiiere  might  lurk  a  virtue  that  was  not  in  sal 

volatile- 


3(52  Siranfjers  and  Tilgrima. 

"The  first  thing  to  be  done,"  said  Malcolm,  coming  to  H 
standstill  by  the  writing-table,  at  which  Gertrude  sat  helpless, 
those  perpetual  tears  standing  in  her  eyes — she  had  done 
nothing  but  shed  those  two  slow  languid  tears  since  she  left 
Slogh-ua-Dyack,  as  if,  having  produced  these  silent  evidences 
of  feeling,  she  had  done  her  duty  to  her  sister, — "the  first 
thing  to  be  done  is  for  Miss  Luttrell  to  write  to  Lord  Paulyn, 
requesting  to  be  immediately  informed  of  the  place  to  which 
her  sister  has  been  taken,  and  the  people  to  whom  she  has  been 
intrusted.  You  had  better  write  the  letter  in  duplicate.  Mis  3 
Luttrell,  and  address  one  copy  to  Park-lane,  and  the  other  to 
Slogh-na-Dyack." 

Miss  Luttrell  endeavoured  to  obey,  with  a  sheep-like  meek- 
ness, but  finding  her  absolutely  incapable  of  framing  a  sentence, 
Mr.  Forde  himself  dictated  the  letter,  which  was  brief  and 
decisive,  ending  with  the  formal  request,  "  Be  good  enough  to 
telegraph  an  immediate  reply." 

It  was  also  at  Mr.  Forde's  suggestion  that  Miss  Luttrell  took 
up  her  abode  in  her  aunt's  house  until  such  time  as  she  should 
be  better  informed  about  her  sister's  fate. 

Having  done  this,  and  feeling,  with  supreme  pain,  that  there 
was  little  more  he  could  do,  Mr.  Forde  went  to  his  solicitor  in 
Lincoln's-inn-fields,  and  took  counsel  with  him  upon  the  legal 
aspect  of  Lady  Paulyn's  position.  The  lawyer's  opinion  was 
not  particularly  cheering.  Elizabeth's  husband  was  her  natural 
guardian.  With  the  sanction  of  the  Commissioners  in  Lunacy, 
he  could  place  her  in  whatever  licensed  establishment  he  pleased. 
Her  sisters  and  her  aunt  counted  for  very  little  in  her  life. 

No  reply  to  Gertrude's  letter  came  in  the  shape  of  a  telegram ; 
but  three  days  after  the  letter  had  been  sent — days  of  intolerable 
length  for  Malcolm  Forde — there  came  a  curt  scrawl  from  the 
Viscount,  informing  his  "  Dear  Miss  Luttrell "  that  Lady 
Paulyn  had  been  placed  in  the  care  of  Dr.  Cameron,  of  Chester- 
field-row, and  Hetheridge  Hall,  Herts ;  that  it  was  quite  imjjos- 
sible  she  could  be  in  better  hands;  and  that,  having  already 
sufiered  so  much  trouble  and  annoyance  from  this  unhappy 
event,  he  must  request  that  no  further  letters  might  be  addressed 
to  him  upon  the  subject.  He  was  on  the  point  of  starting  for 
Home,  where  he  meant  to  winter;  his  native  country  having 
become  obnoxious  to  him.  The  letter  was  full  of  his  lordship's 
personal  grievance,  and  contained  not  one  afiectionate  or  com- 
passionate allusion  to  his  wife. 

It  contained,  however,  all  that  Malcolm  Forde  wanted  to 
know,  the  name  of  the  doctor  and  the  madhouse. 

He  made  Gertrude  accompany  him  to  Chesterfield-row  within 
half-an-hour  of  the  receipt  of  the  letter.  He  had  taken  up  hia 
quarters  for  a  few  daya  with  an  old  friend  in  Cadogan-place,  in 


atmngers  and  Pilgrims.  363 

-der  to  be  wthin  five  minutes'  walk  of  Mrs.  Chevenix's  house, 
and  had  stipulated  that  a  messenger  should  bring  him  immediate 
tidings  of  Lord  Paulyn's  reply.  Thus  it  was  that  so  little  time 
was  lost  between  the  arrival  of  the  letter  and  their  interview 
with  Lady  Paulyn's  physician. 

Dr.  Cameron  was  kindness  itself;  smiled  his  sweet  smile 
upon  Gertrude  and  her  clerical  friend;  pledged  himself  to  do  all 
that  he  could  do,  in  reason. 

"But  really  what  you  ask  for,  Mr.— Mr.  Forde,"  with  a 
glance  at  the  cards  that  had  been  sent  in  to  him,  "  is  quite  out 
of  the  question.  I  can  perfectly  understand  Miss  Luttrell's 
natural  desire  to  see  her  sister.  But  an  interview,  in  the  pre- 
sent stage  of  affairs,  is  simply  impossible." 

"  Yet  is  it  not  just  possible,  Dr.  Cameron,  that  the  sight  of  some 
one  whom  she  has  known  and  loved  all  her  life— a  famihar  home- 
face,  bringing  back  old  memories— might  strike  a  chord " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  exclaimed  the  doctor  in  his  blandest  way, 
"that  is  the  very  thing  we  want  to  avoid;  there  must  be  no 
chords  struck  yet  awhile,  the  instrument  is  not  strong  enough 
to  bear  the  shock.  _  It  is  all  very  well  on  the  stage  or  in  a  novel ; 
we  are  told  to  beUeve  that  a  favourite  melody  is  played,  a  fami- 
liar face  is  seen,  and  the  patient  gives  a  shriek,  and  recovers  his 
senses  in  a  moment  upon  the  sjiot.  My  dear  sir,  there  is  no 
such  thing  possible.  Mental  aberration,  without  positive  change 
in  the  condition  of  the  brain,  is  a  thing  of  the  rarest  occurrence. 
We  have  to  cure  the  brain,  which  we  can  neither  see  nor  handle, 
just  as  we  set  a  broken  arm,  which  we  can  do  what  we  i-':e  with. 
And  the  first  and  most  essential  step  towards  recovery  is  repose, 
absolute  rest.  You  will  understand,  therefore,  my  dear  Miss 
Luttrell,  why  I  am  compelled  to  forbid  any  intrusion  upon  the 
tranquil  soUtude  in  which  our  dear  patient  is  now  placed." 

"How  soon  may  I  see  her?"  asked  Gertrude. 

"  That  is  a  question  beyond  my  power  to  answer.  All  must 
depend  upon  her  progress  towards  recovery.  If  she  recovers, 
which  I  trust,  which  I  may  venture  to  say  I  believe,  she  ulti- 
mately will,  I  shall  be  happy  to  let  you  see  her  directly  I  find 
her  mind  strong  enough  to  bear  the  emotion  that  must  be  caused 
by  such  a  meeting.  I  will  not  ask  you  to  wait  tiU  she  is  really 
well,  for  that  naturally  will  be  an  affair  of  time,  and  at  the 
best  rather  a  long  time;  but  as  soon  as  the  brain  begins  to 
regain  its  balance,  concurrently  with  the  return  of  bodily 
strength,  you  shall  be  allowed  to  see  her.  Lord  Paulyn,  who 
is  na,turally  as  anxious  as  yourself,  has  resigned  himself  to  the 
inevitable,  and  submits  to  my  judgment  in  this  sad  affair." 

_  "  He  is  so  far  resigned,"  said  Mr.  Forde  with  some  touch  of 
bitterness,  "  that  he  contemplates  going  abroad,  and.  putting 
the  Channel  between  himself  and  hia  afflicted  wife." 


3G1  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

"A  step  I  myself  recommended,"  replied  Dr.  Cameron. 
"  Lord  Paulyn  has  been  rather  severely  shaken  by  this  business, 
and  as  he  is  of  an  excitable  temperament,  the  consequences  to 
himself  might  not  be  -without  peril." 

The  conversation  lasted  some  time  longer.  Mr.  Forde  was 
not  easily  satisfied.  He  tried  to  obtain  some  defiftite  expres- 
sion of  the  physician's  opinion.  But  physicians  are  not  given 
to  definite  oj^inions.  Dr.  Cameron  see-sawed  the  matter  in  his 
most  delicate  way,  said  all  that  was  kind  about  Lady  Paulyn, 
persuaded  Miss  Luttrell  that  the  best  thing  she  could  possibly 
do  would  be  to  go  back  to  Devonshire,  and  there  quietly  wait 
for  tidings  of  her  sister's  recovery,  and  then  pohtely  dismissed 
his  visitors,  who  had  really  usurped  a  good  deal  of  his  valuable 
morning,  while  patients  with  their  fees  neatly  papered  in  their 
waistcoat-pockets  were  yawning  over  a  three-weeks-old  JH-ws^ra^ed 
Jjondon  JVews,  or  a  year-old  Quarterly. 

Gertrude  left  Chesterfield-row  sorely  dejected  in  mind,  and 
disposed  to  take  the  doctor's  advice,  and  go  straight  back  to 
the  little  house  in  the  Boroughbridge-road,  where  bright  fenders 
and  fire-irons  and  polished  tables  would  be  going  to  rack  and 
ruin  in  the  absence  of  her  supervising  eye.  She,  of  old  so 
strong-minded,  seemed  to  have  become  the  weakest  and  most 
helpless  of  womankind. 

"  It  isn't  as  if  I  could  be  any  good  to  Elizabeth,"  she  said. 
"  If  I  could  hrfp  her  in  any  way  I  shouldn't  care  what  sacri- 
fices I  made.  But  Dr.  Cameron  says  I  may  have  to  wait  for 
months  before  he  can  let  me  see  her,  and  what  will  become  of 
the  liouse  all  that  time,  with  only  Diana  and  Blanche,  who  have 
no  more  idea  of  looking  after  things  than  if  they  were  infants? 
We  shall  all  be  ruined  if  I  don't  go  back  soon." 

"  And  when  you  are  gone  back,  if  your  sister  were  dying,  and 
Dr.  Cameron  at  the  last  moment  awoke  to  the  idea  that  she 
jhould  have  some  one  near  her  whom  she  had  loved,  you  will 
oe  in  Devonshire — too  far  to  be  summoned  in  time  to  be  of  any 
use." 

"  But  she  is  not  going  to  die,"  cried  Gertrude,  with  a  fright- 
ened look;  "  Dr.  rv^meron  said  nothing  about  her  dying." 

"  Not  directly ;  Uit  he  said  she  was  in  a  very  weak  state  ot 
health,  and  a  physician  seldom  says  quite  all  he  means.  I 
have  seen  her,  remember,  and  the  change  I  saw  in  her  was 
enough  to  put  sad  forebodings  into  my  mind.  0  God,  to  think 
of  her  alone  in  a  madhouse,"  he  cried,  with  a  httle  burst  of 
passion,  "  the  brightest  creature  that  ever  Lived  upon  this 
earth!" 

"  But  they  wUl  take  the  utmost  care  of  her,"  said  Gertrude 
tremulously,  and  with  a  faint  pang  of  envy,  envying  Elizabeth 
even  now  because  Malcolm  Forde  had  loved  her,  still  loved  her. 


S/raii//ers  and  Pllg^'ims.  3Cj 

perhaps,  for  was  not  this  keen  anxiety  more  than  simple  Chris- 
tian charity  P  "  Dr.  Cameron  told  lis  that ;  and  she  will  have 
every  comfort — every  luxury — a  carriage  at  her  disposal  when 
she  is  well  enough  to  use  it." 

"  Every  comfort — every  luxury  !  Do  you  think  your  sistei 
cares  for  comforts  and  luxuries  in  a  prison  ?  Her  proud  free 
spirit  might  have  found  hajipiness  on  a  desert  island.  Bondage 
has  strangled  it — the  bondage  of  a  fatal  marriage — and  now 
the  bondage  of  a  madhouse.  Gertrude,  when  I  think  of  th^- 
past  I  am  almost  mad.  If  I  had  not  been  the  proudest  fooi 
Vhat  ever  lived,  all  this  might  have  been  prevented.  My  dar« 
ling,"  he  murmured  £oftly,  "  that  bright  mind  should  never  have 
gone  astray  had  I  had  the  keeping  of  it." 

He  grew  calmer  presently,  and  discussed  things  quietly  with 
Gertrude,  who,  shamed  out  of  her  small  worldhness  by  his 
deeper  feeling,  agreed  to  remain  in  Eaton-place  so  long  as 
aunt  Chevenix  would  shelter  her  there;  or,  if  need  were,  to  take 
a  modest  lodging  nearer  her  sister's  prison-house,  and  to  let 
fenders,  fire-irons,  and  even  the  family  tea-kettle,  enfolded  in 
baize  and  cunningly  secreted  under  the  best  bed,  take  care  of 
themselves. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

•*  Did  I  speak  once  angrily,  all  the  drear  days 
You  lived,  you  woman  I  loved  so  well, 
Wbo  married  the  other  ?     Blarue  or  praise, 
Where  was  the  use  then  ?     Time  would  tell, 
And  the  end  declare  what  man  for  you, 
What  woman  for  me,  was  the  choice  of  God." 

TiiKOtrGH  the  dull  days  of  November,  into  the  dreary  mid- 
winter, Malcolm  Forde  lived  in  the  little  village  of  Hetheridge, 
and  in  his  lonely  walks  every  day,  and  often  twice  a  day,  beheld 
the  walls  that  shut  EUzabeth  from  all  the  outer  world.  Christ- 
mas had  come  and  gone — a  strangely  quiet  Christmas — and  he 
had  not  yet  seen  Dr.  Cameron's  patient,  though  he  had  been 
favoured  with  several  brief  interviews  with  the  doctor,  who  had 
cheered  him  lately  with  the  int<-Uigence  that  all  was  going  well ; 
there  had  been  lately  decide^  t^gns  of  improvement ;  the  patient 
had  been  allowed  to  mingle  8  little  with  the  sanest  among  her 


366  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

fellow-patients,  had  assisted  at  their  little  weeklj  dance,  though 
that  modest  festival  had  not  appeared  to  make  much  impres- 
sion upon  her ;  she  had  stared  at  the  long  lighted  music-room 
and  the  people  dancing  in  smartened  mornin^'-dreas  and  various- 
coloured  gloves  wonderingly,  and  had  asked  if  it  were  a  servants* 
ball.  Bat  she  had  latterly  been  more  amenable  to  reason;  the 
nurses  complained  less  of  her  violence ;  she  had  been  taken  for 
an  airing  m  the  grounds  on  fine  days,  and  would  go  out  in  the 
carriage  as  soon  as  the  weather  grew  a  little  milder.  Alto- 
gelher,  the  account  was  cheering,  and  Mr.  Forde  was  fain  to  be 
satisfied,  and  to  thank  God  for  so  much  mercy  in  answer  to  hia 
prayers. 

He  was  not  quite  idle  even  at  Hetheridge,  but  had  made 
friends  with  the  incumbent  of  the  little  rustic  church  and  helped 
him  with  his  duty,  and  made  himself  an  awakening  influence 
even  in  this  narrow  circle.  He  visited  the  poor,  and  catechised 
the  children  on  Sunday  afternoons,  and  very  much  lightened  the 
burden  of  the  perpetual  curate  of  Hetheridge,  who  was  an  elderly 
man  with  a  chronic  asthma.  This  work,  and  long  hours  of  quiet 
study  deep  into  the  winter's  night,  made  his  life  tolerable  to  him 
— made  it  easy  to  wait  and  watch  and  hope  for  the  hour  of  EUza- 
beth's  recovery. 

And  when  she  would  have  recovered — what  then  ? 

Why,  then  she  would  go  back  to  her  husband,  and  to  her  old 
worldly  life,  most  likely,  and  grow  weary  of  it  again.  0,  no,  he 
would  not  believe  this.  He  would  hope  that  by  God's  blessing 
this  dismal  warning  would  not  have  been  sent  in  vain, 
that  she  would  begin  an  entirely  new  life,  a  life  of  unselfishness 
and  good  works,  a  life  brightened  by  faith  and  prayer,  a  life 
which  should  be  her  apprenticeship  to  Hhristianity,  her  educa- 
tion for  the  world  to  come. 

This  was  what  he  hoped  for,  this  was  the  end  to  which  he 
looked  forward,  after  that  blessed  day  when  she  should  stand 
before  him  in  her  right  mind. 

This  consummation  seemed  to  be  a  little  nearer  by  and  by, 
when  Dr.  Cameron  said,  that  if  Miss  Luttrell  would  procure  a 
line  from  Lord  Paulyn  giving  his  consent  to  an  interview  with 
the  patient,  he,  the  doctor,  would  sanction  such  an  interview  in 
the  course  of  the  following  week. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  it  is  necessary  to  obtain  Lord 
Paulyn's  consent  before  his  afflicted  wife  can  be  allowed  to  see 
her  own  sister,  her  nearest  surviving  relative  ?  "  asked  Malcolm, 
with  a  touch  of  indignation. 

"  Unquestionably,  my  dear  sir,"  answered  the  doctor.  "  Lord 
Paulyn  placed  thii  dear  lady  in  Tiy  care,  and  I  have  no  right 
to  permit  her  to  see  any  one.  evcL  her  nearest-of-kin,  until  I  am 
certain  of  his  approval.    The  bond  between  man  and  wife,  ray 


Strangers  and  I^iJjrims.  867 

dear  sir — as  I  need  hardly  suggest  to  a  gentleman   of  your 
sacred  callmg — is  above  all  other  ties." 

"Yes;  and  as  interpreted  by  the  common  law  of  England  is 
sometimes  a  curious  bondage,"  said  Mr.  Forde  bitterly  ;  "  sepa- 
rating a  woman  from  all  that  was  dear  to  her  in  the  past,  en- 
compassing her  life  with  a,  boundary  which  no  one  shall  cross — let 
her  suffer  what  she  may — except  her  sufferings  assume  tliat 
special  shape  which  the  makers  of  the  divorce-law  have  taken 
into  consideration.  Thus,  a  man  may  break  his  wife's  heart,  but 
must  not  break  her  bones,  in  the  presence  of  witnesses." 

_"  Lord  Paulyn  has  been  a  most  devoted  husband,  I  beUeve," 
said  Doctor  Cameron,  with  a  disapproving  air. 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  believe  otherwise.  Only  it  seems  rather 
hard  that  your  patient  cannot  see  her  sister  without  her  hus- 
band's permission.  It  is  taking  no  account  of  all  her  past  life. 
And  there  may  be  some  delay  in  obtaining  this  consent,  unless 
you  can  give  Miss  Luttrell  her  brother-in-law's  address." 

"  Lord  Paulyn  was  in  Rome  when  I  last  heard  from  him,"  re- 
plied Dr.  Cameron,  with  an  agreeable  recollection  of  his  lordship's 
communication,  which  had  been  merely  an  envelope  enclosing  a 
cheque.  "  If  it  will  save  Miss  Luttrell  trouble,  I  shall  be  happy 
to  write  to  him  myself.  Of  course  such  an  appeal  to  his  wishes 
is  a  mere  point  of  ceremony,  but  one  which  I  feel  myself  bound 
to  observe." 

"  You  are  very  good.  Yes,  if  you  will  write  I  am  sure  Miss 
Luttrell  will  be  obliged  to  you." 

It  was  settled  therefore  that  Dr.  Cameron  should  apply  for 
the  required  permission,  and  Gertrude  must  await  the  answer  to 
his  letter,  however  tardily  Lord  Paulyn  might  reply. 

The  week  spoken  of  by  the  2)hysician  came  and  went,  and  he 
acknowledged  that  his  patient  was  now  well  enough  to  see  her 
sister,  but  there  was  no  answer  from  Eome. 

The  Viscount  had  gone  elsewhither,  perhaps,  and  the  doctor's 
letter  was  following  by  the  slow  foreign  stages. 

Tliis  delay  seemed  a  hard  thing  to  Malcolm  Forde,  almost 
harder  to  bear  than  the  long  period  of  doubt  and  fear,  when  at 
each  new  visit  to  the  physician  he  had  dreaded  to  hear  the 
])atient  pronounced  incurable.  Now  when  God  had  given  her 
back  to  them — for  these  first  slow  signs  of  improvement  ho 
accepted  as  the  promise  of  speedy  cure — man  interposed  with 
his  petty  forms  and  ceremonies,  and  said,  "  She  shall  languish 
alone  ;  the  slow  dawn  of  sense  shall  show  her  nothing  but  strange 
faces ;  the  first  glimmer  of  awakening  reason  shall  find  her  in 
lonehness  and  abandonment;  the  first  thought  her  mind  shall 
shape  shall  be  to  think  herself  forgotten  by  all  her  little  world, 
put  away  from  them  like  a  leper,  to  live  or  die  as  God  pleases, 
without  their  love  or  their  helis^" 


868  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

It  was  in  vain  that  he  pleaded  with  Dr.  Cameron. 

"  I  would  i-ather  wait  for  the  letter,"  the  kind-heaiied  physi* 
ciau  said  iu  his  mild  gentlemanlike  way.  "  A  little  delay 
will  do  no  harm.  The  mind  is  certainly  recovering  its  balance, 
and  I  hope  great  things  from  the  return  of  mild  weather.  I  have 
given  Lady  Paulyn  new  apartments — those  small  changes  are 
sometimes  beneficial — and  a  piano ;  the  exciting  tendency  of 
music  was  a  point  to  be  avoided  until  now ;  and  I  have  changed 
her  nurses.  Poor  thing,  she  fancied  the  last  were  unkind ;  the 
merest  delusion,  as  they  were  women  of  the  highest  character, 
and  peculiarly  skilled  in  their  avocation." 

Another  week  went  by,  and  there  was  still  no  communication 
from  Lord  Paulyn.  Dr.  Cameron  had  written  again,  at  Mr. 
Forde's  earnest  request,  and  Gertrude  had  also  written,  but  there 
was  no  answer  to  either  letter.  Malcolm  Forde  paced  the  lonely 
road  outside  the  fences  of  Hetheridge  Park  for  hours  together  iu 
the  dull  February  afternoons,  saw  the  firelight  shining  from  the 
distant  windows  of  the  Hall,  which  looked  a  comfortable  man- 
sion as  its  many  lattices  shone  out  upon  the  wintry  dusk ;  a 
mansion  in  which  one  could  fancy  happy  home-like  scenes ;  the 
patter  of  childish  feet  on  polished  oak  staircases,  fresh  young 
voices  singing  old  ballads  in  the  gloaming;  lovers  snatching 
brief  ghmpses  of  Paradise  in  shadowy  corridors,  from  the  light 
touch  of  a  Httle  hand  or  the  shy  murmur  of  two  rosy  lips  ;  all 
Bweet  things  that  wait  upon  youth  and  hope  and  love,  instead 
of  madmen's  disjointed  dreams,  and  the  tramping  to  and  fro  of 
weary  feet  that  know  not  whither  they  would  go. 

He  could  only  watch  and  wait  and  hope  and  pray,  pray  that 
the  return  of  reason  might  restore  her  to  peace  and  a  calmer 
loftier  frame  of  mind  than  she  had  ever  known  yet.  For  his 
own  part  he  had  never  even  hinted  a  wish  to  see  her.  Indeed, 
he  did  hardly  desire  to  see  that  too  lovely  face  again,  most  lovely 
to  him  even  in  its  decay.  It  would  be  enough  for  hira  to  hear 
of  her  from  Gertrude;  enough  for  him  to  have  secured  her  the 
consolation  of  a  sister's  companionship ;  and  by  and  by,  when 
she  was  restored  to  health  and  released  from  her  captivity — a 
captivity  which  should  not  last  an  hour  longer  than  was  neces- 
sary, Dr.  Cameron  assured  him — he  could  go  back  to  his  distant 
vineyard,  with  his  soul  at  peace.  In  the  meantime  it  was  his 
duty  to  watch  for  her  and  care  for  her,  as  a  brother  might  have 
done. 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  3G9 


CHAPTER  XY. 

•'  Look  on  me !     There  is  an  order 
Of  mortals  on  the  earth,  who  do  become 
Old  in  their  youth,  and  die  ere  middle  age, 
Without  the  violence  of  warlike  death  ; 
Some  perishing  of  pleasure — some  of  study — 
Some  worn  with  toil— some  of  mere  wearineaa— 
Some  of  disease — and  some  insanity — 
And  some  of  wither'd,  or  of  broken  hearts; 
For  this  last  is  a  malady  which  slays 
More  than  are  number'd  in  the  lists  of  Fate, 
Taking  all  shapes,  and  bearing  many  names." 

Elizabeth  was  better.  The  time  had  come  when  she  conia 
Bhape  her  thoughts  into  words ;  when  Dr.  Cameron's  kind  face, 
Bmiling  gently  at  her,  had  become  something  more  than  a  pic- 
ture ;  when  it  had  ceased  also  to  recall  to  her  first  one  person, 
then  another,  faintly  remembered  among  the  hazy  crowd  of 
former  acquaintance,  the  people  she  had  known  in  the  Park-lane 
period  of  her  life.  The  time  had  come  at  last  when  she  knew 
nim  as  her  custodian  ;  though  why  he  should  be  so,  she  knew 
not,  nor  yet  the  meaning  of  her  imprisonment.  But  he  seemed 
to  her  a  person  in  authority,  and  to  him  she  appealed  against 
her  nurses,  telling  him  that  they  had  been  cruel  to  her,  more 
cruel  than  words  could  speak,  especially  her  words,  poor  soul ! 
which  came  tremulously  from  the  pale  lips,  and  were  a.pt  to 
shape  disjointed  phrases.  The  nurses  strenuously  denied  the 
truth  of  this  accusation :  whereupon  Dr.  Cameron  gently  shook 
his  head,  as  who  would  say,  "  Poor  soul,  poor  soul !  we  know 
how  much  significance  to  attach  to  her  complaints ;  but  we  may 
as  well  humour  her."  So  Nurse  Barber  and  Nurse  Lucas  were 
passed  on  to  another  patient  in  the  preUminary  and  violent 
gtage,  and  Lady  Paulyn  was  now  so  fortunate  as  to  be  com- 
mitted to  the  care  of  a  soft-hearted  low-voiced  little  woman  who 
had  none  of  the  vices  of  the  Gamp  sisterhood.  This  change, 
and  a  change  in  her  apartments  to  rooms  with  a  southern  aspect, 
looking  out  upon  a  flower-garden,  produced  a  favourable  effect. 
The  patient  began  to  sleep  a  little  at  night,  awoke  from  wild 
dreams  of  the  past,  recognised  the  blank  lonely  present,  and 
knew  that  she  was  severed  from  all  she  had  ever  loved ;  knew 
that  her  dead  were  verily  dead,  and  that  the  voices  she  had 
heard  in  all  those  long  winter  nights  had  beea  only  dream 
voices. 

Memory  was  slow  to  return,  and  the  power  of  consecutive 
thought.      Ideas  flashed  across  her   brain  like  lightning,  and 


370  Strangers  ancd  Pllgrimg. 

ideas  that  were  for  tlie  greater  part  false.  Her  mind  was  like  a 
diamond- cut  crystal  reflecting  gleams  of  many-coloured  light,  or 
like  a  kaleidoscope  in  whicli  thought  was  for  ever  running  from 
one  form  into  another.  Her  brain  was  never  quiet.  It  thought 
and  thought,  and  invented  and  imagined,  but  rarely  remem 
bered,  or  only  remembered  the  remote  past ;  and  even  in  those 
memories  fact  was  mixed  with  fiction.  Books  that  had  impressed 
her  long  ago  were  as  much  a  portion  of  her  life  as  the  actual 
events  of  the  past ;  and  even  in  her  broken  memories  of  books, 
imagination  bewildered  and  deceived  her.  There  were  poems  of 
Byron's,  the  "  Giaour,"  the  "  Prisoner  of  Chillon,"  which  in  her 
girlhood  she  had  been  able  to  repeat  from  the  first  line  to  the 
last.  She  could  remember  a  line  here  and  there  now,  and  mur- 
mured it  to  herself  sadly,  again  and  again.  And  out  of  this 
grew  a  fancy  that  she  had  known  Byron,  that  she  had  met  him 
in  Italy  and  in  Greece,  had  stood  upon  the  sea- shore  at  Lerici 
■when  the  white-sailed  bark  that  held  genius  and  Shelley 
vanished  from  the  storm-swept  waters.  This  and  a  hundred 
other  such  fancies  filled  her  brain.  She  left  off  thinking  of 
Malcolm  Forde,  to  think  of  beings  she  had  never  known,  crea- 
tures of  her  wild  imagining. 

Left  to  the  companionship  of  a  nurse  whose  ideas  rarely 
soared  above  the  question  of  turning  a  last  winter's  gown,  or 
putting  new  ribbon  on  an  old  bonnet,  invention  supj^lied  the 
place  of  society.  She  conversed  with  phantoms,  held  mysterious 
communion  with  shadows.  Were  there  not  people  outside  her 
window  for  whom  she  had  a  secret  code  of  signals  ?  Did  she 
not  laugh  to  herself  sometimes  at  the  thought  of  how  she 
cheated  her  custodians? 

Sometimes  she  was  gay  with  a  feverish  gaiety,  at  other  times 
melancholy  to  despair,  weeping  a  rain  of  tears  without  knowing 
why  she  wept.  Dr.  Cameron  being  informed  of  these  melan- 
choly fits,  suggested  that  she  should  mix  more  freely  with  the 
other  patients ;  that  she  should  spend  an  hour  or  two  in  the 
drawing-room  with  the  milder  cases,  and  even  attend  the  weekly 
soirees,  and  derive  gladness  from  the  Lancers  and  Caledonians. 
So  one  sunny  morning,  when  the  aspect  of  Nature,  even  in  her 
winter  garment,  was  cheerful,  Lady  Paulyn's  nurse  led  her 
down  to  the  drawing-room,  and  left  her  there  alone  on  an  otto- 
man near  the  firejilace,  while  all  the  milder  cases  stared  at  her 
with  a  dreamy  indifierent  stare,  but  not  without  some  glimmer 
of  sane  superciliousness. 

The  drawing-room  was  long  and  spacious,  with  a  fireplace  at 
each  end,  oak  panelling  and  family  portraits,  a  room  that  did 
really  seem  a  little  too  good  even  for  the  milder  cases,  who  were 
hardly  up  to  oak  panelling  or  the  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  school 
of  portraiture.    The  windows  were  high  and  wide,  and  the  sun 


Slrangerg  and  Pilgrims.  371 

elione  in  upon  the  scattered  figures,  not  grouped  about  eitlier  of 
the  fireplaces,  but  scattered  about  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
room,  each  as  remote  as  possible  from  her  companions,  and  all 
idle.  There  they  sat,  solitary  among  numbers,  all  staring 
straight  before  them  after  that  one  brief  survey  of  Elizabeth — 
Bome  talking  to  themselves  in  a  dreary  monotonous  way,  others 
silent. 

Elizabeth  looked  round  her  wonderingly.  What  were  they  ? 
Guests  in  a  country  house?  What  a  strange  look  they  had, 
dressed  not  unlike  other  people,  with  faces  like  the  faces  of  the 
rest  of  womankind  so  far  as  actual  feature  went,  yet  with  so 
curious  a  stamp  upon  every  countenance  and  every  figure,  and 
some  minute  eccentricity  in  every  dress  !  And  then  that  low 
sullen  muttering — solitary-looking  women  complaining  totliem- 
sclves  in  a  hopeless  subdued  manner ;  then  suddenly  that  low 
sound  of  complaint  swelled  to  a  little  Ixirst  of  clamour,  half-a- 
dozen  shrill  voices  raised  at  the  same  instant,  a  discordant  noise 
as  of  cats  quarrelling,  which  was  hushed  as  suddenly  at  the 
behest  of  a  clever-looking  little  woman,  dressed  in  black,  who 
walked  quickly  up  and  down  the  room  remonstrating. 

There  was  an  open  piano  near  the  fii'eislace.  Elizabeth  sat 
down  before  it  presently  and  began  to  play — dreamily — as  if 
awakening  reason  found  a  vague  voice  in  music.  But  she  had 
hardly  j^layed  a  dozen  bars  when  a  tall  gaunt-looking  woman, 
in  brown  and  yellow,  came  up  to  her  and  pulled  her  away  from 
the  piano. 

"  I'll  have  no  more  of  your  noise,"  she  said ;  "  you're  always 
at  it,  and  I  won't  stand  it  any  longer." 

"  But  I  never  saw  you  before  to-day,"  pleaded  Elizabeth, 
looking  at  her  with  innocent  wondering  eyes — eyes  that  had 
grown  childlike  in  that  long  slumber  of  the  mind.  "  I  can't 
have  annoyed  you  before  to-day." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense!  You  have  annoyed  me;  you're  a 
detestable  nuisance.  I  won't  have  that  piano  touched.  First 
and  foremost,  it's  my  property " 

"  Come,  come,  ]\Irs.  Sloper,''  said  the  little  woman  in  black, 
who  occupied  the  onerous  post  of  matron  in  this  part  of  the 
establishment.  "  You  musn't  be  naughty.  You've  been  very 
naughtv  all  this  morning,  and  I  shall  really  have  to  complain 
to  Mr.  Burley." 

Mr.  Burley  was  the  resident  medical  man,  a  gentleman  who 
enjoyed  the  privilege  of  daily  iatercourse  with  the  cases,  and 
had  to  do  a  good  deal  of  mild  flirtation  with  the  first-class  lady 
patients,  each  of  whom  fancied  she  had  a  peculiar  right  to  the 
doctor's  attention. 

Elizabeth  wondered  a  little  to  hear  a  broad-shouldered  female, 
on  the  wrong  side  of  forty,  reproved  for  nauglrtinegs,  in  the  kind 


372  Strangers  and  Pilcjrims. 

of  tone  msually  addressed  to  a  child  of  six.  It  was  strange,  but 
no  stranger  than  the  rest  of  her  new  life.  There  were  some  books 
on  the  table  by  the  fireplace,  the  first  books  she  had  seen  since 
her  illness.  She  seized  upon  them  eagerly,  and  began  to  turn 
the  leaves,  and  look  at  the  pictures.  They  seemed  to  speak  tc 
her,  to  be  full  of  secret  messages  from  some  one  she  had  loved. 
Who  was  it  she  had  once  loved  so  dearly  P  She  could  not  even 
remember  his  name. 

"  0  mamma,  mamma,  mamma !  "  moaned  a  lady  in  an  arm- 
chair on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hearth ;  a  middle-aged  lady, 
stout  of  build,  with  pepper-and-salt-coloured  hair  neatly  plaited 
and  tied  up  with  brown  ribbons,  in  the  street-door-knocker 
style,  like  a  school-girl's.  "  0,  mamma,  mamma !  "  she  moaned, 
lifting  her  voice  with  every  repetition  of  her  cry;  "take  me 
home  to  my  mamma." 

"  Miss  Chiffinch,"  said  the  matron,  "  you  really  must  not  go 
on  so ;  you  disturb  everybody,  and  it  is  exceedingly  silly  to  talk 
like  that.  Your  mamma  has  been  dead  for  the  last  twenty 
years." 

"  You  fool !"  repHed  Miss  Chiffinch,  with  ineffable  scorn,  "  as 
if  I  didn't  know  that  as  well  as  you."  And  then  resumed  her 
cuckoo  cry,  "  0,  mamma,  mamma! " 

One  young  woman,  with  straight  brown  hair  hanging  down 
her  back,  walked  about  the  room  in  a  meandering  sort  of  way, 
trying  to  fasten  herself  upon  somebody,  like  the  boy  who  wa.nted 
the  brute  creation  to  play  with  him ;  and,  like  that  idle  child, 
was  rejected  by  all.  She  came  up  to  Elizabeth  presently,  as  if 
hoping  to  obtain  sympathy  from  a  new  arrival. 

"  My  sisters  are  so  'appy,"  she  said;  "  so  'appy.  They're 
all  at  'ome,  and  they  do  enjoy  themselves  so;  they're  as  'appy 
as  the  day  is  long.  Don't  you  think  they'd  let  me  go  'ome  ?  I 
do  want  to  go  'ome ;  my  «isters  are  so  'appy." 

"  Why  don't  you  try  to  employ  yourself.  Miss  Pocock,"  de- 
manded the  busy  little  matron,  who  was  always  knitting  a 
stocking,  and  whose  needles  flew  as  she  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  or  remonstrated  with  her  charges.  "  You'd  get  well 
as  soon  again  if  you'd  try  to  do  something ;  I'll  give  you  some 
plain  work,  if  you  like ;  anything  would  be  better  than  roaming 
about  like  that,  worrying  everybody." 

"  O,  Mrs.  Dawlings,  do  let  me  go  'ome,"  pleaded  Miss  Pocock, 
In  her  drawling  tone;  "  my  sisters  are  so  'appy.  0,  dear  Mr. 
Burley,"  this  with  a  little  gush  as  she  espied  the  house  doctor 
entering  by  a  door  near  at  hand,  "  do  let  me  go  'ome.  I'll  be 
so  grateful,  and  I'll  be  so  good  to  father,  and  never  be  trouble- 
some any  more.     My  sisters  are  so  'appy  !  " 

"  You  should  have  behaved  better  when  you  were  at  home," 
said  Mr.  Burley,  with  friendly  candour.     "  There,  go  along,"  as 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  373 

Misg  Pocock  hung  upon  his  arm  aflfectionately,  "  and  try  to  get 
well;  get  some  needlework,  and  sit  down  and  keep  yourself 
quiet."  With  this  scientific  advice  Mr.  Burley  walked  on  and 
looked  at  the  other  patients,  with  a  cool  cursory  glance  at  each ; 
as  if  they  had  been  a  flock  of  sheep,  and  he,  their  shepherd, 
only  wanted  to  assure  himself  he  had  the  right  number. 

This  was  the  ladies'  drawing-room ;  the  gentlemen  had  their 
own  apartments  in  the  east  wing.  The  second-class  patients, 
male  and  female,  had  their  apartments  in  the  west  wing ;  and 
there  were  private  sitting-rooms  in  abundance  for  patients  not 
well  enough  or  quiet  enough  for  general  society.  The  majority 
of  these  drawing-room  cases  were  old  stagers,  people  who  had 
been  in  Dr.  Cameron's  care  for  years,  and  were  likely  to  end 
their  lives,  contentedly  enough,  perhaps,  despite  that  chronic 
moaning,  under  his  roof.  They  were  well  fed,  and  Hving  thus 
publicly  under  the  matron's  eye  were  not  much  subject  to  the 
dominion  of  cruel  nurses.  They  had  comfortable  rooms,  good 
fires,  weekly  high-jinks  in  the  winter,  little  dances  on  the  lawn 
in  the  summer,  an  annual  pic-nic,  and,  in  short,  such  small 
solace  as  humanity  could  devise ;  and  the  slow  dull  lives  they 
led  here  could  hardly  have  been  much  slower  or  duller  than 
the  lives  which  some  people,  in  their  right  mind,  lead  by  choice 
in  a  country  town. 

Elizabeth  looked  at  her  fellow-patients  in  a  dreamy  way; 
turned  the  leaves  of  the  books — reading  a  few  lines  here  and 
there — the  words  always  assuming  a  kind  of  hidden  meaning 
for  her,  as  if  they  had  been  mystic  messages  intended  for  her 
eye  alone;  but  when  the  book  was  closed  she  had  no  memory  of 
anything  she  had  read  in  it.  She  dined  with  the  milder  cases, 
male  and  female,  in  the  pubHc  dining-room,  at  the  request  of 
Mr.  Burley,  who  wanted  to  see  the  effect  of  society,  even  such 
society  as  that,  as  an  awakening  influence. 

Here  the  cases  behaved  tolerably  enough,  though  exhibiting 
the  selfishness  of  poor  humanity  with  an  amount  of  candour 
which  does  not  obtain  in  the  outside  world.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  grumbling  about  the  viands,  chiefly  in  an  under  tone, 
and  the  patients  were  perpetually  remonstrating  with  the 
serving-man  who  administered  to  their  wants,  and  who  had 
rather  a  hard  time  of  it.  There  were  even  attempts  at  conver- 
sation :  Mr.  Burley  saying  a  few  words  in  a  brisk  business-like 
way  now  and  then  at  his  end  of  the  table,  and  the  matron 
politely  addressing  her  neighbours  at  her  end.  One  elderly 
gentleman,  with  a  limp  white  cravat  and  watery  blue  eyes, 
fixed  upon  EHzabeth,  and  favoured  her  with  an  exposition  of 
his  theological  views.  "  Ton  have  an  intellectual  countenance, 
madam,"  he  said,  "  and  I  think  you  are  capable  of  appreciating 
mv  ideas.    There  is  a  sad  want  of  intellectuality  in  people  here! 


374  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

a  profound  indifference  to  those  larger  questions  whicli No, 

Dickson,  I  will  not  have  a  waxy  potato;  how  many  times  must 
I  tell  you  that  there  is  a  conspiracy  in  this  house  to  give  me 
waxy  potatoes !  Take  the  plate  away,  sir !  I  was  about  to 
observe,  madam,  that  you  have  an  intellectual  countenance,  and 

are,  I  doubt  not "     Here  Dickson's  arrival  with  his  plate 

again  broke  the  thread  of  the  elderly  gentleman's  discourse, 
and  he  branched  off  into  a  complaint  against  the  administration 
for  its  unjust  distribution  of  gravy ;  and  then  began  again,  and 
kept  on  beginning  again  with  trifling  variation  of  phrase  till  the 
end  of  dinner. 

After  dinner  Jane  Howlet,  the  nurse,  bore  Elizabeth  away  to 
her  own  apartment ;  but  here  she  had  now  a  piano,  on  which 
she  played  for  hours  together  all  the  old  dreamy  Mendelssohn 
and  Chopin  music  which  she  had  played  long  ago  in  those  dull 
days  at  the  Vicarage  when  all  her  life  had  been  a  dream  ol 
Malcolm  Forde.  She  played  now  as  she  had  played  then, 
weaving  her  thoughts  into  the  music;  and  slowly,  slowly, 
slowly  the  cui'tain  was  lifted,  sense  and  memory  came  back, 
until  one  day  she  remembered  that  she  was  Lord  Paulyn's 
wife,  and  that  there  was  an  impassable  gulf  between  her  and 
the  man  she  loved. 

So  one  morning  when  Dr.  Cameron,  going  his  weekly  round, 
with  Mr.  Burley  in  attendance  on  him,  asked  her  the  old  ques- 
tion about  her  husljand  in  his  gentle  fatherly  voice,  she  no 
longer  looked  up  at  him  with  vague  wonder  in  her  eyes,  but 
looked  downward  with  a  sad  smile,  a  smile  in  which  there  was 
thought. 

"  My  husband,"  she  repeated  slowly.  "  No,  I  do  not  want  to 
see  him.  Ours  was  not  a  happy  marriage.  He  was  always  very 
good  to  me — let  me  have  my  own  way  in  most  things — only  I 
couldn't  be  happy  with  him.  I  used  to  think  that  kind  of  life — 
a  fine  lady's  life — must  be  happiness,  but  I  was  punished  for 
my  folly.     It  didn't  make  me  happy." 

This  was  by  far  the  most  reasonable  speech  she  had  uttered 
since  she  had  left  Slogh-na-Dyack,  but  Dr.  Cameron  looked  at 
his  assistant  with  a  pensive  smile.  "  Still  very  rambling,"  he 
murmured,  and  then  he  patted  Elizabeth's  head  with  his  gentle- 
manly hand.  "  You  must  try  to  get  well,  my  dear  lady,"  he 
said ;  "  compose  yourself,  and  collect  your  thoughts,  and  don't 
talk  too  much.  And  then  I  shall  soon  be  able  to  write  to  your 
good  kind  husband  and  tell  him  you  are  better.  Don't  you 
tliink  he'll  be  very  pleased  to  hear  that  P" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Elizabeth  moodily;  "if  he  cared 
very  much  he  would  hardly  have  left  me  here." 

"  My  dear  lady,  your  coming  here  was  unavoidable.  Ajid  B§9 
wJiQ.t  good  it  hag  done  you  I" 


Sirangers  and  Pilgrims.  375 


« 


Good  !"  she  cried,  with  a  wild  look,  "  You  don't  know  what 
I  have  suffered  in  the  horrible  room,  locked  in,  with  those 
brutal  women.  Gcod  !  Why,  between  them  they  drove  me  mad ! " 

This  speech  cost  EHzabeth  a  melancholy  entry  in  the  physi- 
cian's note-book:  "Very  little  improvement;  ideas  wild,  delu- 
sion about  nurses  continues." 

The  weekly  festive  gatherings,  at  which  she  :^as  now  per- 
mitted to  assist,  were  not  enlivening  to  Lady  Pa^-lyn's  spirits. 
She  sat  on  a  bench  against  the  wall  watching  the  dancers,  who 
really  seemed  to  enjoy  themselves  in  their  divers  manners, 
except  Miss  Chiffinch,  who  was  not  tei'psichorean,  and  who  sat 
in  her  corner  and  moaned  for  her  mamma;  and  Miss  Pocock, 
who,  even  in  the  midst  of  the  Caledonians,  buttonholed  her 
fellow-dancers  in  order  to  inform  them  that  her   sisters  were 


>> 


so  appy.' 

Mr.  Burley  himself  assisted  at  these  weekly  dances,  in  white- 
kid  gloves,  and,  as  long  as  things  went  tolerably  well,  made 
believe  that  the  dancers  were  quite  up  to  the  mark,  and  on  a 
level  with  dancers  in  the  outside  world.  Everything  was  done 
ceremoniously.  The  orchestra  consisted  of  a  harp,  fiddle  and 
clarionet,  all  plaj'cd  by  servants  of  the  establislament.  Mr. 
Burlej^  danced  with  all  the  more  distinguished  ladies  ;  curious- 
looking  matrons  in  high  caps  and  china-crape  shawls,  whose 
gloves  were  too  large  for  them,  but  this  was  a  peculiarity  of 
everybody's  gloves,  being  bought  for  them  by  the  heads  of  the 
house  with  no  special  reference  to  size.  He  asked  Ehzabeth  to 
dance  the  First  Set  with  him,  but  she  declined. 

"  I  never  dance  at  servants'  balls,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  all  very 
well  to  look  on  for  half-an-hour,  but  I  should  think  they  would 
enjoy  themselves  more  if  one  kept  away  altogether." 

"  But  this  is  not  a  servants'  ball." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  " 

Mr.  Burley  was  rather  at  a  loss  for  a  reply. 

"  A — a  friendly  little  dance,"  he  said,  "  got  up  to  amuse  you 
all." 

•'  But  it  doesn't  amuse  me  at  all.  I  don't  know  any  of  these 
people,  they  have  not  been  introduced  to  me.  I  thought  it  was 
a  servants'  party." 

'■■  0,  Mr.  Burley,  do  i:)lease  let  me  go  'ome,"  exclaimed  Miss 
Pocock,  swooping  down  upon  the  superintendent.  "  I  do  so 
want  to  go  'ome.     My  sisters  are  so  'a])py." 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Melinda" — Miss  Pocock's  name  wag 
]\Ielinda,  and. being  youthful  she  was  usuiilly  addressed  by  her 
Christian  name — "  if  you  don't  behave  yourself  properly,  you 
shall  be  sent  to  bed.  Home  indeed;  why,  you'll  have  to  stop 
here  another  twelvemonth  if  you  go  on  bothering  everybody  like 
this,' 


876  Sfrnhj&rs  and  Pilfjrims. 

"  0,  Mr.  Burley !  And  my  sisters  are  so  'appy.  There'll  be 
tarts  and  negus  presently,  won't  there?" 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  behave  yourself." 

"  Then  I  will.    But  my  sisters  are  so  'appy." 

Mr.  Burley  pushed  her  away  with  a  friendly  push,  and  she 
was  presently  absorbed  in  the  whirlpool  of  a  set  of  Lancers,  and 
was  informing  people  of  her  sisters'  happiness  to  the  tune  of 
"  When  the  heart  of  a  man  is  oppressed  with  care."  The  house 
surgeon  was  more  interested  in  Lady  Paulyn  than  in  Miss 
Mehnda  Pocock,  who  was  the  youngest  daughter  of  an  Essex 
farmer,  idle,  selfish,  greedy,  and  troublesome,  and  by  no  means 
a  profoundly  interesting  case. 

He  talked  to  Elizabeth  for  a  Httle,  talked  seriously,  and  found 
her  answers  grow  more  reasonable  as  he  went  on.  Did  she 
remember  Scotland,  and  her  house  there  P  Yes,  she  told  him, 
with  a  shudder.  She  hated  the  house,  but  she  loved  the 
country,  the  hills,  and  the  wide  lakes,  and  the  great  sea  beyond. 

"  I  should  hke  to  live  out  upon  those  hiUs  alone,  all  the  rest 
of  my  life,"  she  said. 

"  You  must  get  well,  and  go  back  there  in  the  summer." 

"  Not  to  that  house ;  to  a  cottage  among  the  hills,  a  cottage 
of  my  own,  where  I  could  live  by  myself.  I  will  never  go  back 
to  that  house  and  the  people  in  it.  But  why  do  you  all  talk  to 
me  about  getting  well  ?  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me, 
or  at  least  only  my  tiresome  cough,  which  will  be  well  soon 
enough." 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

"  Peace  to  his  soul,  if  God's  good  pleasure  be  ! " 

i'HBEE  weeks  had  gone  by  since  Dr.  Cameron  had  written  to 
Lord  Paulyn,  and  Malcolm  Forde  still  waited  to  hear  the  result 
of  that  apphcation.  He  went  on  with  his  own  particular  work 
quietly  enough  in  the  mean  while,  did  the  heaviest  part  of  the 
asthmatic  curate's  duty,  read  to  all  the  bedridden  cottagers 
within  six  miles  of  Hetheridge,  went  up  to  London  every  now 
and  then  to  see  his  friends  of  the  Gospel  Society,  and  thus  kept 
himself  acquainted  with  all  that  was  being  done  for  the  progi-ess 
of  that  great  work  to  which  he  had  given  his  life,  and  so  lived  a 
not  altogether  empty  or  futile  existence  even  during  this  period 
of  self-abnegation.  He  had  to  attend  a  meeting  in  town  one 
morning  while  still  waiting  for  Lord  Paulyn's  letter,  and  finding 
his  business  finished  at  one  o'clock,  went  straight  to  Eato«i- 


Slrangers  and  Pilgrims.  ii77 

place  to  cal).  upon  Miss  Luttrell.  He  had  heard  from  Dr. 
Cameron  a  day  or  two  before,  to  the  effect  that  there  had  been 
no  answer  from  Lord  Paulyn,  but  it  was  just  possible  Gertrude 
herself  might  have  received  a  letter  that  very  morning.  The 
letter  must  come  sooner  or  later,  he  thought,  with  some  ex- 
planation of  the  delay  which  seemed  so  heartless. 

The  Eaton-jjlace  man-of-all-work — the  man  who  had  given 
Mr.  Forde  the  ticket  for  the  amateur  theatricals  at  the  Rancho 
— had  rather  a  doubtful  air  when  he  asked  to  see  Miss  Luttrell. 
Mrs.  Chevenix  and  Miss  Luttrell  were  at  home,  he  said,  but  he 
hardly  thought  they  would  see  anybody. 

"  Miss  Luttrell  will  not  refuse  to  see  me,"  said  Mr.  Forde, 
giving  the  man  his  card. 

"  Oh,  it's  not  that — I  know  you,  sir,  only  I'm  afraid  there's 
something  wroag.     But  I'll  take  your  name  in." 

He  carried  the  card  into  the  dining-room,  and  reappeared  im- 
mediately to  usher  Mr.  Forde  in  after  it. 

Mrs.  Chevenix  and  her  eldest  niece  were  at  luncheon,  that  ia 
to  say,  the  usual  array  of  edibles — the  snug  little  hot- water  dish 
of  cutlets,  the  imported  pie  in  a  crockery  crast,  the  crisp  pass- 
over  biscuits,  Stilton  cheese,  dry  sherry,  silver  chocolate  pot,  and 
other  vanities — had  been  duly  set  forth  for  Mrs.  Chevenix's 
delectation,  but  that  lady  sat  gazing  absently  at  these  prepara- 
tions, with  consternation  written  upon  her  countenance.  Ger- 
trude, who  also  sat  idle  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  was  in  the 
act  of  shedding  tears. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  Mr.  Forde  asked,  with  an  alarmed 
tone.  Had  there  been  ill  news  from  Hetheridge  in  his  absence  ? 
His  heart  sank  at  the  thought.  But  surely  that  could  not  be. 
He  had  inquired  of  the  woman  at  the  lodge  that  very  morning, 
and  had  heard  a  good  account  of  the  patient.  He  had  made  this 
lodge-keeper  his  friend,  bought  her  fidelity  at  a  handsome  price, 
at  the  very  beginning  of  things,  and  so  had  been  able  to  obtaii" 
tidings  every  day. 

The  two  ladies  sighed  dolefully,  but  said  nothing.  There  was 
an  open  letter  lying  beside  Gertrude's  plate,  a  letter  edged  with 
black.  The  letter  from  Lord  Paulyn,  he  thought.  That  noble- 
man must  be  still  in  mourning  for  his  mother. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Rome  P  "  he  asked  Gertrude ;  "and  does 
he  forbid  you  seeing  your  sister?  Can  he  be  cruel  enough, 
wicked  enough  to  do  that  ?  " 

"  We  have  had  no  letter  from  Lord  Panlyn,  and  I  must 
beg  you  not  to  speak  in  that  impetuous  way  about  my  poor 
nephew-in-law,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix.  "  Lord  Paulyn  is  in 
heaven." 

Malcolm  Forde  looked  at  her  wonderingly ;  the  phrase  seemed 
almost  meaningless  at  first. 


378  Strartfjers  and  Pilgrims. 

"Yes,  it's  very  dreadful,"  said  Gertrude,  "but  it's  only  loo 
true.  I'm  sure  it  seems  like  a  dream.  He  was  not  a  kind 
brother-in-law  to  me,  and  I  had  very  little  advantage  from  such 
a  splendid  connection,  except,  perhaps,  being  more  looked  up  to 
and  deferred  to  in  Hawleigh  society.  The  same  people  that 
asked  xis  to  spend  the  evening  before  Elizabeth's  marriage  asked 
ns  to  dinner  afterwards.  Beyond  that  I  had  nothing  to  thanh. 
Lord  Paulyn  for.  But  still  it  seems  so  dreadful  to  be  snatched 
away  like  that,  and  only  thirty-four ;  and  I  fear  that  after  the 
sadly  worldly  life  he  led  here  he'll  find  the  change  to  a  better 
•world  disappointing." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Forde.  "  Is  Lord  Paulyn 
dead?" 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Gertrude ;  "  the  letter  came  this  morning  from 
his  lawyer.  He  died  at  Rome  last  Thursday,  after  only  a  week's 
illness.  He  had  been  hunting  in  the  Campagna,  his  lawyer  says, 
and  caught  cold,  but  refused  to  stay  in-doors  and  nurse  himself,  as 
his  valet  wanted  him  to  do,  and  the  next  morning  he  woke  in  a 
high  fever ;  and  the  landlord  of  the  hotel  sent  for  a  doctor,  an 
Italian,  who  bled  him  every  other  day  to  keep  down  the  fever.  But 
he  grew  rapidly  worse,  and  died  on  Thursday  morning,  just  as 
his  servant  began  to  get  frightened  and  was  going  to  call  in  an 
English  doctor.  The  lawyer  is  very  angry,  and  says  he  must 
have  been  murdered  by  that  Italian  doctor.  It  seems  very 
dreadful." 

"  It  will  be  in  the  ilf or wz)if/  Post  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Cheve- 
nix  solemnly.  "  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  they  gave  him  half 
a  column  edged  with  black,  like  a  prime  minister.  I  suppose  it 
would  be  a  mockery  to  offer  you  luncheon,  Mr.  Forde,"  she  went 
on  in  a  dreary  voice  ;  "  those  cutlets  a  la  souhise  are  sure  to  be 
good.  You  won't  ?  Then  we  may  as  well  go  up  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Give  me  a  glass  of  sherry,  Gertrude.  I  haven't  touched 
a  morsel  of  anything  since  breakfast." 

So  they  went  upstairs  to  the  drawing-room — that  room  whose 
veriest  trifles,  the  fernery,  the  celadon  china,  the  lobsters  and 
other  sea-vermin  in  modern  majolica  ware,  reminded  Malcolm 
Forde  of  that  bitter  day  when  he  had  tried  to  cast  Elizabeth 
Luttrell  out  of  his  heart  as  entirely  as  he  had  banished  her  trow 
his  life. 

"It  seems  like  a  dream,"  said  Gertrude,  wiping  away  a 
tributary  tear,  and  appeared  to  think  that  in  this  novel  remark 
she  had  expressed  all  that  could  possibly  be  said  about  Lord 
Paulyn's  untimely  death. 

"  We  shall  all  have  to  go  into  mourning,"  shewent  on  presently. 
"  So  near  Ashcombe,  of  course  it  would  be  impossible  to  avoid 
it,  and  I  don't  suppose  he  has  left  us  anything  for  mourning; 
tlying  80  suddenly,  he  wouldn't  be  likely  to  think  of  it,  and  the 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  379 

»nmmer  comii.g  on  too,  with  our  dusty  roads — positively  ruinoaa 
for  mourning." 

"  He  is  to  be  brought  home  to  Ashcombe,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix ; 
"  and  poor  Elizabeth  uot  able  to  be  at  the  funeral !  So  sad  I 
And  her  absence  so  likely  to  be  noticed  in  the  papers ! "  _ 

They  babbled  on  about  funerals  and  mourning,  and  will  or  no 
will,  while  Malcolm'  Sorde  sat  silent,  really  like  one  whose  brain 
is  entangled  in  the  mazes  of  some  wild  dream.  Dead ! — the  last, 
remotest  possibiUty  he  could  have  dreamed  of — dead !  _  And 
Ehzabeth  set  free,  free  foi-  him  to  watch  over,  for  him  to 
cherish,  for  him  to  win  slowly  back  to  reason  and  to  love ! 

He  thought  of  her  that  night  at  Dunallen,  that  bitter  night, 
in  which  temptation  assailed  him  in  the  strongest  form  that  ever 
the  tempter  wore  for  erring  man's  destruction,  when  she  had 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  him  and  pleaded  "  Keep  me  with  you, 
Malcolm,  keep  me  with  you !"  and  he  had  longed  with  a  wild  long- 
ing to  clasp  her  to  his  breast,  and  carry  her  away  to  some  secure 
haven  of  secresy  and  loneliness,  and  defy  the  world  and  heaven 
and  hell  for  her  sake.  Brief  but  sharp  had  been  the  struggle; 
few  the  tears  he  had  shed;  but  the  tears  a  strong  man  sheds  in 
such  a  moment  are  tears  of  blood.  And  behold,  now  she  was 
free!  He  might  say  to  her,  "Dearest,  I  will  keep  you  and 
guard  you  for  ever ;  and  even  if  the  lost  light  never  comes  baek 
again— if  those  sweet  eyes  must  see  me  for  ever  dimly  through  a 
cloud  of  troubled  thoughts— I  may  still  be  your  guardian,  your 
companion,  your  brother,  your  friend." 

But  she  would  recover— he  had  Dr.  Cameron's  assurance  of 
that.  She  would  recover.  God  would  give  her  back  to  life  and 
reason,  and  to  him.  How  strange  and  new  seemed  that  won- 
drous prosj^ect  of  happiness !  like  a  sadden  break  in  a  leaden 
storm-cloud  Hooding  all  the  world  with  sunshine ;  like  an  opening 
in  a  wood  revealing  a  fair  summer  landscape  new  to  the  gaze  of 
the  traveller,  fairer  than  all  that  he  had  ever  seen  upon  earth, 
almost  as  lovely  as  his  dreams  of  heaven. 

He  sat  speechless  in  this  wonderful  crisis  of  his  Ufe,  not  daring 
to  thank  God  for  this  blessing,  since  it  came  to  him  by  so  dread 
a  means,  by  the  sudden  cutting  off  of  a  man  who  had  never 
injured  him,  and  for  whose  untimely  death  he  should  have  felt 
some  natural  Christianlike  regret. 

But  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  consider  his  dead  rival,  he 
could  only  think  of  his  own  new  future — a  future  which  would 
give  back  to  him  all  he  had  sun-endered — a  future  which  would 
recompense  him  a  thousandfold,  even  in  this  lower  life,  for  every 
sacrifice  of  inclination,  for  every  renunciation  of  self-interest, 
that  he  had  made.  It  was  not  his  theory  that  a  man's  works 
should  be  rewarded  in  this  life  ;  but  eartlily  things  are  apt  to  bo 
sweet  even  to  a  Christian,  and  k)  Malcobn  Fordo  to-day  it  seemed 


380  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

that  to  win  back  the  woman  he  had  loved,  to  begin  again  from 
that  unforgotten  starting-point  when  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms 
under  the  March  moonlight,  the  star-like  eyes  looking  up  at  him 
full  of  unspeakable  love,  to  recommence  existence  thus  was  to  be 
young  again,  young  in  a  world  as  new  as  Eden  was  to  Adam 
when  he  woke  in  the  dewy  morning  and  beheld  his  help- 
meet. 

And  Tongataboo,  and  the  infantine  souls  who  had  wanted  to 
worship  him  as  their  god,  the  dusky  chiefs  who  made  war 
upon  each  other  and  roasted  each  other  alive  upon  occasion, 
only  for  the  want  of  knowing  better,  and  who  were  prompt  to 
confess  that  the  God  of  the  Christians,  not  exacting  human 
sacrifice  or  self-mutilation,  must  needs  be  "  a  good  fellow ;" 
what  of  these  and  all  those  other  heathen  in  the  unexplored 
corners  of  the  earth,  to  which  he  was  to  have  carried  the  cross 
of  Christ  ?  Was  he  ready  to  renounce  these  at  a  breath,  for 
the  sake  of  his  earthly  love  ?  No,  a  thousand  times  no  !  Love 
and  duty  should  go  haud-in-hand.  His  wife  should  go  with 
him — should  help  him  in  his  sacred  work.  He  would  know  how 
to  leave  her  in  some  secure  shelter  when  the  path  he  trod  was 
perilous — he  would  expose  her  to  no  danger — but  she  might  be 
near  him  always,  and  sometimes  with  him,  and  might  help  him 
in  his  labours,  might  serve  the  great  cause  even  by  her  beauty 
and  brightness — as  birds  and  flowers,  lovely,  useless,  things  as 
we  may  deem  them,  swell  the  universal  hymn  wherewith  God's 
creatures  praise  their  Creator. 

All  these  thoughts  were  in  his  mind,  vistas  of  happiness  to 
come,  stretching  in  dazzling  vision  far  away  into  the  distant 
future,  while  he  sat  silent  Uke  a  man  spellbound,  hearing  and 
yet  not  hearing  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Chevenix  as  she  held  forth 
at  length  uijon  the  difference  between  real  property  and  per- 
sonal property  in  relation  to  a  widow's  thirds,  and  the  supreme 
folly,  the  almost  idiotcy — sad  token  of  future  derangement — 
which  Elizabeth  had  shown  in  objecting  to  a  marriage  settle- 
ment. 

" '  Heir-presumptive,'  "  said  Mrs.  Chevenix,  referring  to  Burke, 
whose  crimson-bound  volume  lay  open  close  at  hand,  " '  Cap- 
tain Paulyn,  E.N. ;  born  January,  1828;  married,  October,  1849, 
Sarah  Jane,  third  daughter  of  John  Henry  Towser,  Esq.,  of 
West  Hackney,  Middlesex.'  Imagine  a  twopenny-halfpenny 
naval  man  inheriting  that  vast  wealth,  and  perhaps  Elizabeth 
left  almost  a  pauper  !  If  that  sweet  child  had  only  lived !  But 
there  has  seemed  a  fate  against  that  poor  girl  from  the  first. 
What  win  be  her  feelings  when  she  recovers  her  senses,  poor 
child,  and  is  told  she  is  only  a  dowager  !  Even  the  diamonds, 
I  suppose,  will  have  to  go  to  Sarah  Jane,  third  daughter  of  John 
Henry  Towser  "  (with  meffable  disgust). 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  uiil 

"As  her  uearest  relation  you  will  now  have  the  right  to  see 
your  sister  without  any  one's  permission,"  said  Mi.  Forde  to 
Gertrude,  slowly  awakening  from  that  long  dream.  "  She  has 
ceased  to  belong  to  any  one — but  you.  Will  you  come  xl\>  to 
Hetheridge  to-morrow  morning,  Gertrude  ?"  He  had  called 
her  by  her  Christian  name  throughout  this  time  of  trouble,  and 
to-day  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  already  his  sister.  He  wag 
eager  to  think  and  act  for  her,  to  do  everything  that  might 
hasten  the  hour  of  Elizabeth's  release. 

"  I  will  come  if  you  like,  only — there's  the  mourning ;  we 
oan't  be  too  quick  about  that.  They  may  ask  us  to  the 
funeral." 

''They!  Who?  Your  brother-in-law  had  no  near  relation  i. 
There  will  only  be  lawyers  and  the  new  Viscount  interested  in 
this  business.  Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead.  You  have  your 
sister  to  think  of.  Could  you  not  send  for  Blanche?  Your 
sister  expressed  a  desire  to  see  Blanche.  I  have  been  thinking 
tliat  I  might  find  you  a  furnished  house  at  Hetheridge ;  there 
is  a  pretty  little  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  which 
I  am  told  is  usually  let  to  strangers  in  summer.  If  I  could  get 
that  for  you  now,  you  would  be  close  at  hand,  and  could  see 
your  sister  daily.  I  have  had  a  good  deal  of  friendly  talk  with 
Dr.  Cameron,  and  I  am  sure  that  he  will  do  all  in  his  power 
to  hasten  her  recovery.  May  I  try  to  secure  the  cottage  for 
you  ?" 

Gertrude  looked  at  him  curiously ;  she  was  very  pale,  and  the 
eyes,  which  had  once  been  handsome  eyes,  before  time  and 
disappointment  had  dimmed  their  lustre,  had  brightened  with 
an  unusual  light — not  a  pleasant  light. 

"  You  think  of  no  one  but  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  her  voice 
trembling  a  little.     "It  is  hardly  respectful  to  the  dead." 

"  I  think  of  the  living  whom  i  know  more  than  of  the  dead 
whom  I  only  saw  for  an  hour  or  so  once  in  my  life ;  that  is 
hardly  strange.  If  you  are  indifi'erent  to  your  sister's  welfare 
at  such  a  time  as  this,  I  will  not  trouble  you  about  her.  I 
can  write  to  Blanche;  she  will  come,  I  daresay,  if  I  ask 
her." 

Blanche  would  come,  yes,  at  the  first  bidding.  Had  she  noi 
Ijeen  pestering  her  elder  sister  with  piteous  letters,  entreating 
to  be  allowed  to  come  to  London  and  see  her  darling  Lizzie, 
whose  madness  she  would  never  believe  in.  It  was  all  a  plot 
of  those  horrid  Paulyns.  Gertrude  knew  very  well  that  Blanche 
would  come. 

"  You  can  take  the  cottage,"  she  said,  " if  it  is  not  very 
•expensive.  Please  remember  that  we  are  poor.  You  won't 
mind  my  going  away,  will  you,  aunt,  to  be  near  Elizabeth?  " 

"  My  dear  Gertrude,  how  can  you  ask  such  a  question?"  ox- 

K  B 


8S2  Strangerg  and  Pilgrimg. 

cUiimed  Mrs.  Clievenix  expansively.  "As  if  I  should  for  a 
moment  allow  any  selfish  desire  of  mine  to  stand  between  you 
and  poor  Elizabeth." 

She  said  this  with  real  feeling ;  for  Gertrnde  was  not  a  viva- 
cious companion,  and  her  society  had  for  some  time  been  oppres- 
sive to  Mrs.  Chevenix. 

It  is  no  small  trial  for  an  elderly  lady  with  a  highly- cultivated 
selfishness  to  have  to  share  her  dainty  little  luncheons  and  care- 
ful little  dinners,  her  decanter  of  Manzanilla,  and  her  cup  of 
choicest  Mocha,  with  a  person  who  is  neither  profitable  nor 
entertaining. 

"  Mr.  Foljambe  the  lawyer,  a  person  in  Gray's-inn,  promises 
to  call  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Chevenix  presently.  "  I  suppose 
we  shall  hear  all  the  sad  particulars  from  him,  and  about  the 
will,  if  there  is  a  will.' 

In  the  question  of  the  will  Mr.  Forde  felt  small  interest. 
Was  he  not  rich  enough  for  both,  rich  enough  to  go  back  to 
those  sunny  isles  in  the  Southern  Sea  with  his  sweet  young 
wife  to  bear  him  company ;  rich  enough  to  build  her  a  pleasant 
home  in  that  land  where  before  very  long,  if  he  so  chose,  he 
might  write  himself  down  Bishop  ?  All  his  desires  were  bounded 
by  the  hope  of  her  speedy  recovery  and  release.  He  could  go  to 
Dr.  Cameron  now  with  a  bolder  front;  could  tell  the  kindly 
physician  that  brief  and  common  story  which  the  doctor  had 
perhaps  guessed  at  ere  now;  could  venture  to  say  to  him,  "  I 
have  watched  over  and  cared  for  her  not  only  because  I  was 
her  father's  friend,  and  remember  her  in  her  bright  youth,  but 
because  I  have  loved  her  as  well  as  ever  a  woman  was  loved 
Qpon  this  earth." 


CHAPTER  XVn. 

"The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 

With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 

Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of  thine. 

And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two." 

The  cottage  was  hired ;  a  rustic  little  box  of  a  place  containing 
four  rooms  and  a  kitchen,  with  a  lean-to  roof;  a  habitation  just 
redeemed  from  absolute  commonness  by  a  prettily-arranged 
garden,  a  green  porch,  and  one  bow  window ;  but  Gertrude,  who 


Sirauffers  and  I'ihjrims.  i  83 

came  to  Hetlieridge  with  hei-  worldly  goods  in  a  cab,  declared 
the  place  charming,  worthy  of  Mr.  Forde's  excellent  taste.  This 
■\ve.g  before  noon  of  the  day  after  Malcolm  heard  of  Lord 
Paulyn's  death.  He  had  lost  no  time,  but  had  taken  the 
cottage,  engaged  the  woman  who  kept  it  to  act  as  servant,  seen 
Dr.  Cameron,  who  had  that  morning  received  a  letter  from  Mi. 
Foljambe  the  lawyer,  and  was  inexpressibly  shocked  at  the 
event  which  it  announced,  and  had  wrung  from  him  a  somewhat 
reluctant  consent  to  the  sisters  seeing  each  other  on  the  follow- 
ing day. 

"  There  is  a  marked  improvement ;  yes,  I  may  venture  to  say 
a  decided  improvement ;  but  Lady  Paulyn  is  hardly  as  well  as 
I  could  wish.  The  mind  still  wanders ;  nor  is  the  physical 
health  all  I  could  desire.  But  that  doubtless  will  be  benefited 
by  milder  weather." 

"  And  freedom,"  said  Malcolm  Forde  eagerly.  "  Elizabeth's 
Boul  is  too  wild  a  bird  not  to  languish  in  a  cage.  Give  her  back 
to  the  scenes  of  her  youth  and  the  free  air  of  heaven,  and  I  will 
be  responsible  for  the  completion  of  her  cure.  You  will  not  tell 
her  of  her  husband's  death  yet  a  while,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  I  think  not.  The  shock  might  be  too  great  in  her  present 
weak  condition." 

Three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  was  the  hour  Dr.  Cameron 
appointed  for  the  interview,  and  at  half-past  two  Mr.  Forde 
called  at  the  cottage.  He  had  promised  to  take  Gertrude  to 
the  park  gate,  and  to  meet  her  in  the  Hetheridge-road  on  her 
return,  so  that  he  might  have  early  tidings  of  the  interview. 

It  was  a  balmy  afternoon  in  early  spring,  the  leaHess  elms 
faintly  stirred  by  one  of  those  mild  west  winds  which  March 
sometimes  steals  from  his  younger  brother  April,  an  afternoon 
of  sunshine  and  promise,  which  cheats  the  too  hopeful  soul  with 
the  fond  delusion  that  summer  was  not  very  far  otf,  that  equi- 
noctial gales  are  done  with,  and  the  hawthorn  l^lossom  read}'^  to 
burst  through  the  russet  brown  of  the  hedgerows.  Hetheridge 
is  a  spot  beautiful  even  in  winter,  essentially  beautiful  in  spring, 
when  the  Tindulating  pastures  that  slojje  away  from  the  crest 
of  the  hill  down  to  the  very  edge  of  the  distant  city  are  clothed 
in  their  freshest  verdure,  and  dotted  with  wild  purple  crocuses, 
which  flourish  in  profusion  on  some  of  the  Hetherido-e  pastures. 
Hetheridge  has  as  yet  escaped  the  builder;  half-a-dozen  coimtry 
houses,  for  the  most  part  of  the  Williamand-MaTy  period,  are 
scattered  along  the  rural-looking  road,  a  few  more  clustered 
near  the  green.  Shops  there  are  none;  only  a  village  inn,  with 
Bweet-smelling  white-cxirtained  bedchambers  and  humble  sanded 
jiarlours,  and  a  row  of  cottages,  an  avenue  of  ancient  elms,  and 
the  village  church  to  close  the  vista.  At  the  church  gates  the 
road  makes  a  sudden  wind,  and  descends  the  liill  gently,  still 


884  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

keeping  high  above  the  distant  city  and  the   broad  valley 
between,  to  the  gates  of  Hetheridge  Park. 

"  This  bright  afternoon  seems  a  good  omen,"  said  Malcolm 
Porde,  as  he  and  Gertrude  came  near  this  gate. 

"  O,  dear  Mr.  Forde,  surely  you  are  not  superstitious!" 
exclaimed  Gertrude  with  a  shocked  air. 

"  Superstitious,  no ;  but  one  is  cheered  by  the  sunshine.  I 
am  glad  the  sun  will  shine  on  your  first  meeting  with  your  sister. 
Think  of  her,  Gertrude,  a  prisoner  on  this  lovely  day  !" 

"  But  she  is  not  a  prisoner  in  the  shghtest  degree.  Don't 
you  remember  Dr.  Cameron  told  us  she  was  to  have  carriage 
airings  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  be  driven  out  with  other  patients,  I  suppose,  for  a 
stiff  little  drive.  I  don't  think  Elizabeth  would  mistake  that  for 
liberty.  This  is  the  gate.  I  will  leave  you  to  find  your  own 
way  to  the  house.  I  have  no  permission  to  cross  the  boundary. 
You  will  find  me  here  when  you  come  back." 

He  waited  a  long  hour,  his  imagination  following  Gertrude 
into  that  old  red-brick  mansion,  his  fancy  seeing  the  face  he 
loved  almost  as  vividly  as  he  had  seen  it  with  his  bodily  eyes 
that  night  at  Dunallen.  What  would  be  the  report?  Would 
she  strike  Gertrude  strangely,  as  a  changed  creature,  not  the 
sister  she  had  known  a  year  or  two  ago,  but  a  being  divided 
from  her  by  a  great  gulf,  distant,  unapproachable,  strange  as 
the  shadowy  semblance  of  the  very  dead  ?  It  was  an  hour  of 
nnspeakable  anxiety.  All  his  future  life  seemed  now  to  hang  upon 
what  Gertrude  should  tell  him  when  she  came  out  of  that  gate. 
At  first  he  had  walked  backwards  and  forwards,  for  a  distance 
©f  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  by  the  park  fence.  Later  he  could 
not  do  this,  so  eagerly  did  he  expect  Gertrude's  return,  but 
stood  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  with  his  back  against  a 
stile,  watching  the  gate. 

She  came  out  at  last,  walking  slowly,  with  her  veil  down. 
His  watch  told  him  that  she  had  been  just  a  few  minutes  more 
than  an  hour ;  his  heart  would  have  made  him  believe  that  he 
had  waited  half  a  day.  She  did  not  see  him,  and  was  walking 
towards  the  village,  when  he  crossed  the  road  and  placed  him- 
self by  her  side. 

"  Well,"  he  cried  eagerly,  "  tell  me  everything,  for  God's 
sake  !  Did  she  know  you  ?  Was  she  pleased  to  see  you  ?  Did 
she  talk  reasonably,  hke  her  old  self?" 

Gertrude  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  repeated  his  ques- 
tion.    "  For  God's  sake  tell  me !" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  not  looking  up,  "  she  knew  me,  and  seemed 
rather  pleased,  and  talked  of  our  old  life  at  Hawleigh,  and 
poor  papa,  and  was  very  reasonable.  I  don't  think  thera  is 
much  the  matter  with  her  mind." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrima.  385 

"  Thank  God,  thank  God  !  I  knew  He  would  be  good  to  us 
I  knew  He  would  listen  to  our  prayers !  And  she  is  better, 
nearly  well !  God  bless  that  good  Dr.  Cameron  !  I  was  in- 
clined to  hate  him  at  first,  and  to  think  that  he  meant  to  lock 
her  up  and  hide  her  from  us  all  the  days  of  her  life.  But  he 
only  did  what  was  right,  and  he  has  cured  her.  Gertrude,  why 
do  you  keep  your  veil  down  like  that,  and  jHjur  head  bent  so 
that  I  can't  see  your  face?  There  is  nothing  to  be  unhappy 
al)out  now  that  she  is  so  mucli  better.  If  she  knew  you  and 
talked  to  you  reasonably  of  the  past,  she  must  be  very  much 
better.  You  should  be  as  glad  as  I  am,  as  grateful  for  God's 
mercy  to  us." 

He  took  hold  of  her  arm,  trying  to  look  into  her  face,  but  she 
turned  away  from  him  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  weei:»ing. 

"  She  is  dying !"  she  said  at  last;  "  I  saw  death  in  her  face. 
She  is  dying;  and  I  have  helped  to  kill  her  !" 

"  Dying  !  Elizabeth  dying ! "  He  uttered  the  words  mecha- 
nically, like  a  man  half  stunned  by  a  terrible  blow. 

"  She  is  dying!"  Gertrude  repeated  with  passionate  persist- 
ence. "  Dr.  Cameron  may  talk  of  her  being  only  a  little  weak, 
and  getting  well  again  when  the  mild  weather  comes,  but  she 
will  never  live  to  see  the  summer.  Those  hollow  checks,  those 
bright,  bi'ight  eyes,  they  pierced  me  to  the  heart.  That  was 
how  mamma  looked,  just  like  that,  a  few  months  before  she 
died.  Just  like  Elizabeth,  to-day.  That  little  worrying  cough, 
those  hot  dry  hands — all,  all  the  dreadful  signs  I  know  so  well. 
O,  Mr.  Forde,  for  God's  sake  don't  look  at  me  like  that,  with 
chat  ireadful  look  in  your  face !  You  make  me  hate  myself 
worse  than  ever,  and  I  have  hated  myself  bitterly  enough  ever 
since ** 

"  Ever  since  what?  "  he  asked,  with  a  sudden  searching  look 
ill  his  eyes,  his  face  white  as  the  face  of  death.  Had  he  not 
iust  received  his  death-blow,  or  the  more  cruel  death-blow  of  all 
his  sweet  new-born  hojjes,  his  new  life?  "  Ever  since  what?  " 
he  repeated  sternly. 

She  cowered  and  shrank  before  him,  looking  at  the  ground, 
and  trembling  like  some  hunted  animal.  "  Since  I  tried  to  part 
you  and  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  "  I  suppose  it  was  very  wicked, 
though  I  wrote  only  the  truth.  But  everything  has  gone  wrong 
with  us  since  then.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  let  loose  a  legion  of 
troubles." 

"  You  tried  to  part  us — you  wrote  only  the  truth !  What ! 
Then  the  anonymous  letter  that  sowed  the  seeds  of  my  besotted 
jealousy  was  your  writing  ?  " 

"  It  was  the  truth,  word  for  word  as  I  heard  it  from  Frederick 
Melvin." 

"  And  you  wrote  an  anonymous  letter — the  meanest,  vilest 


3SG  Slranr/ers  and  Pihjriuis. 

form  which  mahce  ever  chooses  for  its  cowardly  assault — to  part 
your  sister  and  her  lover  !  May  I  ask,  Miss  Luttrell,  what  I 
had  done  to  deserve  this  from  you  ?  " 

"  That  I  will  never  tell  you,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  for 
the  first  time  doggedly. 

"  I  will  not  trouble  you  for  your  reasons.  You  did  what  you 
could  to  poison  my  life,  and  perhaps  your  sister's.  And  now 
you  tell  me  she  is  dying.  But  she  shall  not  die,"  he  cried 
passionately,  "  if  prayer  aud  love  can  save  her.  I  will  wrestle 
for  my  darling,  as  Jacob  wrestled  with  the  angel.  I  will  supplicate 
day  and  night ;  I  will  give  her  the  best  service  of  my  heart  and 
biain.  If  science  and  care  and  limitless  love  can  save  her,  she 
shall  be  saved.  But  I  think  you  had  better  go  back  to  Devon- 
shire, Miss  Luttrell,  and  let  me  have  your  sister  Blanche  for  my 
ally.  It  was  not  your  letter  that  parted  us,  however.  I  was 
not  quite  weak  enough  to  be  frightened  by  any  anonymous 
slander.  It  was  my  own  hot-headed  folly,  or  your  sister'*  fatal 
pride,  that  severed  us.  Only  I  should  hardly  like  to  ^- 
about  her  after  what  you  have  told  me.  There  would  be^.-  >  i 
thing  too  much  of  Judas  in  the  business." 

"  O,  Mr.  Forde,  how  hard  you  are  towards  me !  And  I  acted 
for  the  best,"  said  Gertrude,  whimpering.  "  I  thought  that  I 
was  only  doing  my  duty  towards  you.  I  felt  so  sure  that  you 
and  Elizabeth  were  unsuited  to  each  other,  that  she  could  never 
make  you  happy " 

"Pray  v^ho  taught  you  to  take  the  measure  of  my  capacity 
for  happiness  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Forde  with  sudden  passion.  "  Your 
sister  was  the  only  woman  who  ever  made  me  happy — "  he 
checked  himself,  remembering  that  this  was  treason  against 
that  gentler  soul  he  had  loved  and  lost — "  the  only  woman  who 
ever  made  me  forget  everything  in  this  world  except  herself. 
The  only  woman  who  could  have  kept  me  a  bond  slave  at  her 
feet,  who  could  have  put  a  distaff  in  my  hand,  and  made  me 
false  to  every  purpose  of  my  life.  But  that  is  all  past  now,  and 
if  God  gives  her  back  to  me  I  will  serve  Him  as  truly  as  I  love 
her." 

"  Say  that  you  forgive  me,  dear  Mr.  Forde/'  pleaded  Gertrude 
in  a  feeble  piteous  voice.  "  You  can't  despise  me  more  than  1 
despise  myself,  and  yet  I  acted  with  the  belief  that  I  was  only 
doing  my  duty.  It  seemed  right  for  you  to  know.  I  used  to 
think  it  over  in  church  even,  and  it  seemed  only  right  you  should 
know.     Do  say  that  you  forgive  me ! " 

"  Say  that  I  forgive  you  ! "  cried  Mr.  Forde  bitterly.  "  What 
is  the  good  of  my  forgiveness  ?  Can  it  undo  the  great  wrong 
you  did  if  that  letter  parted  us,  if  it  turned  the  scale  by  so  much 
as  a  feather's  weight?  I  forgive  you  freely  enough.  I  despise 
you  too  much  to  be  angry." 


Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  387 

"  O,  that  is  very  cruel !  " 

"  Do  you  expect  to  gather  grapes  from  the  thorns  you  pkxntud  f 
Be  content  if  the  thorn  has  not  stung  you  to  death." 

"  But  you'll  let  me  stay,  won't  you,  Mr.  Forde,  and  see  my 
poor  sister  as  often  as  Dr.  Cameron  will  allow  me  ?  Remembei-, 
I  was  not  obliged  to  confess  this  to  you.  I  might  have  kept  my 
secret  for  ever.     You  would  never  have  susi^ected  me." 

"  Hardly.  I  knew  it  was  a  woman's  work,  but  I  could  not 
think  it  was  a  sister's." 

"  I  told  you  of  my  own  free  will,  blackened  myyelf  in  your 
eyes,  and  if  you  are  so  hard  upon  me,  where  can  I  exjject  com- 
passion ?  Let  me  stay,  and  do  what  I  cau  to  be  a  comfort  to 
Elizabeth." 

"  How  can  I  be  sure  that  you  are  sincere — that  you  really 
wish  her  well?  You  may  be  planning  another  anonymous 
letter.  You  may  consider  it  your  duty  to  come  between  us 
again." 

"  What,  with  my  sister  on  the  brink  of  the  grave  ?  "  cried 
Gertrude,  bursting  into  tears — tears  which  seemed  the  outpour- 
ing of  a  genuine  grief. 

"  So  be  it  then.  You  shall  stay,  and  I  will  try  to  forget  you 
ever  did  that  mean  and  wicked  act." 

"  You  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  As  I  hope  God  has  already  forgiven  yoa." 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

"  Now  three  years  since 
This  had  not  seemed  so  good  an  end  for  me ; 
But  in  some  wise  all  things  wear  round  betimes 
And  wind  up  well." 

Elizabeth  has  been  nearly  five  months  a  widow.  It  is  the  end 
of  July.  She  is  at  Penarthur,  a  little  Cornish  town  by  the  sea, 
at  the  extreme  western  point  of  the  land,  a  sheltered  nook  where 
the  climate  is  almost  as  mild  as  the  south  of  France ;  where 
myrtles  climb  over  all  the  cottages,  and  roses  blossom  among 
the  very  chimney-pots;  where  the  sea  has  the  hues  of  a  fine 
opal  or  a  peacock's  breast,  for  ever  changing  from  blue  to 
green.  Penarthur  is  a  combination  of  market-town  and  a 
fashionable  watering-place ;  the  town,  with  its  narrow  High- 
street,  and  bank,  and  post-office,  and  market,  and  busy-looking 
commercial  inu,  lying  a  little  inland,  the  fashionable  district 


J3SS  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

consisting  of  a  re  w  of  white-walled  houses  and  one  huge  many- 
balconied  hotel,  six  stones  high,  facing  the  Atlantic  Ocean. 

Among  the  white  houses,  there  is  one  a  little  better  than  the 
rest  standing  alone  in  a  small  garden,  a  garden  full  of  roses  and 
carnations,  mignonette  and  sweet-peas,  and  here  they  have 
brought  Elizabeth.  They  are  all  with  her — Gertrude,  Diana, 
and  Blanche ;  Anne,  the  old  Vicarage  nurse,  who  has  left  her 
comfortable  retirement  at  Ilawleigh  to  wait  upon  her  darling ;  and 
Malcolm  Forde,  who  lodges  in  a  cottage  near  at  hand,  but  who 
spends  all  his  days  with  EUzabeth.  With  Elizabeth,  for  whom 
alone  he  seems  to  live  in  those  bitter-sweet  hours  of  close  com- 
panionship ;  with  Elizabeth,  who  is  never  to  be  his  wife.  God 
has  restored  her  reason ;  but  acroes  the  path  that  might  have 
been  so  fair  and  free  for  these  two  to  tread  together  there  haa 
crept  the  darkness  of  a  shadow  which  forebodes  the  end  of 
earthly  hope. 

He  has  her  all  to  himself  in  these  soft  summer  days,  in  this 
quiet  haven  by  the  sea,  no  touch  of  pride,  no  thought  of  con- 
flicting duty  to  divide  them ;  but  he  knows  full  surely  that  he 
will  have  her  only  for  a  little  while ;  that  the  sweet  eyes  which 
look  at  him  wnth  love  unspeakable  ai'e  slowly,  slowly  fadmg; 
that  the  oval  cheek,  whose  wasting  line  the  drooi^ing  hair 
disguises,  is  growing  more  hollow  day  by  day ;  that  nothing 
love  or  science  can  do — and  he  has  well-nigh  exhausted  the 
resources  of  both  in  her  service — can  delay  their  parting.  Not 
upon  this  earth  is  he  to  reap  the  harvest  of  his  labours ;  not  in 
earthly  happiness  is  he  to  find  the  fruition  of  his  faith.  The 
darkest  hour  of  his  life  lies  before  him,  and  he  knows  it ;  sees  the 
bolt  ready  to  descend,  and  has  to  smile  and  be  cheerful,  and  be- 
guile his  dear  one  with  an  asjiect  of  unchanging  serenity,  lest 
by  any  betrayal  of  his  grief  he  should  shorten  the  brief  span  in 
which  they  may  yet  be  together. 

Physicians,  the  greatest  in  the  land,  have  done  their  utter- 
most. She  had  lived  too  fast.  That  shoi't  reign  of  splendour  in 
Park-lane,  perj^etual  excitement,  unceasing  fatigue,  unflagging 
high  spirits  or  the  appearance  of  high  spirits,  the  wild  grief 
that  had  followed  her  baby's  death,  the  vain  regrets  that  had 
racked  her  soul  even  in  the  midst  of  her  brilliant  career,  the 
excitement  and  fever  of  an  existence  which  was  meant  to  be  all 
pleasure — these  were  among  the  causes  of  her  decline.  There 
had  been  a  complete  exhaustion  of  vitality,  though  the  araoiint 
of  vitality  had  been  exceptional ;  the  ruin  of  a  superb  constitu- 
tion, worn  out  untimely  by  sheer  ill-usage. 

"  Men  drink  themselves  to  death  very  often,"  said  one  of  the 
doctors  to  Malcolm  Forde ;  "  and  women  just  as  often  wear 
themselves  to  death.  This  lovely  J'^oung  woman  has  worn  out  a 
constitution  which  oir'lit  tn  have  la,..,t.  J  til!  she  wuy  cii'.hty.  Verv 


Straiigers  and  Pilgrims.  389 

eaa ,  a  conipiete  decline  of  vital  force.  The  cough  we  might 
get  over,  ija(.cli  up  the  Jungs,  or  make  the  heart  do  their  work  ; 
but  the  whole  organisation  is  worn  out." 

Mr.  Forde  had  questioned  them  as  to  the  possibile  advantages 
of  change  of  climate.  He  was  ready  to  carry  her  to  the  other 
end  of  the  world,  if  Hope  beckoned  him. 

"  If  she  should  live  till  October,  you  might  take  her  to 
Madeira,"  said  liis  counsellor,  "though  this  climate  is  almost  as 
good.  The  voyage  might  be  beneficial,  or  might  not.  With  so 
delicate  an  organisation  to  deal  with,  one  can  hardly  tell." 

That  disease,  which  is  of  all  maladies  the  most  delusive, 
allowed  Elizabeth  many  hoars  of  ease  and  even  hopetulncss. 
She  did  not  see  the  fatal  shadow  that  walked  by  her  side. 
Never  had  the  world  seemed  so  fair  to  her  or  life  so  sweet.  The 
only  creature  she  had  ever  deeply  loved  was  restored  to  her;  a 
happy  future  waited  for  her.  Her  intervals  of  bodily  suffering 
she  regarded  as  an  ordeal  through  which  she  must  pass 
patiently,  always  cheered  by  that  bright  vision  of  the  days  to 
come,  when  she  was  to  be  Malcolm's  helpmeet  and  fellow 
worker.  The  pain  and  weariness  were  hard  to  bear  sometimes, 
but  she  bore  them  heroically,  as  only  a  tiresome  detail  in  the 
great  business  of  getting  well ;  and  after  a  night  of  fever  and 
sleeplessness,  would  greet  Malcolm's  morning  visit  with  a  smile 
full  of  hope  and  love. 

She  was  very  fond  of  talking  to  him  of  their  future,  the 
strange  world  she  was  to  see,  the  cxirious  child-like  people  whose 
little  children  she  was  to  teach ;  funny  coloured  children,  with 
eyes  blacker  than  the  sloes  in  the  Devonshire  lanes,  and  flash- 
ing white  teeth;  children  who  would  touch  her  white  raiment 
with  inquisitive  little  paws,  and  think  her  a  goddess,  and  wonder 
why  she  did  not  spread  her  wings  and  soar  away  to  the  blue 
sky.  Her  brain  was  singularly  active;  the  apathy  which  had 
been  a  distinguishing  mark  of  her  mental  disorder  a  few  months 
ago,  which  had  even  continued  for  some  time  after  she  had  left 
Hetheridge  Hall,  had  now  given  place  to  all  the  old  vivacity. 
She  was  full  of  schemes  and  fancies  about  that  bright  future; 
planned  every  room  in  the  one-story  house,  bungalow-shaped, 
which  Malcolm  was  to  build  for  her;  was  never  tired  of 
hearing  him  describe  those  sunny  islands  in  the  Southern 
Sea. 

They  had  been  talking  of  these  things  one  sultry  afternoon, 
in  a  favourite  spot  of  Elizabeth's,  a  little  curve  of  the  shore 
where  there  was  a  smooth  stretch  of  sand,  sheltered  by  a  screen 
of  rocks.  She  could  not  walk  so  far,  but  was  brought  here  in  a 
bath-chair,  and   sometimes,  when  weakest,  reclined  here  on  a 


S90  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

couch  made  of  carriage-rugs  and  air  pillows.  This  afternoon 
they  were  alone.  The  three  sisters  had  gone  off  on  a  pilgrimage 
to  Mordred  Castle,  and  had  left  them  to  the  delight  of  each 
other's  company. 

"  How  nice  it  is  to  be  with  you  like  this  !"  Elizabeth  said 
softly,  putting  a  wasted  httle  hand  into  Malcolm's  broad  palm, 
a  hand  which  seemed  smaller  to  him  every  time  he  clasped  it. 
"  I  wish  there  was  more  castles  for  the  others  to  see,  only  that 
sounds  ungrateful  when  they  are  so  good  to  me.  Do  you  know, 
Malcolm,  I  lie  awake  at  night  often — the  cough  keeps  me 
awake  a  good  deal,  but  it  would  be  all  the  same  if  I  had  no 
cough — I  lie  and  wonder  at  our  happiness,  wonder  to  think  that 
God  has  given  me  all  I  ever  desired ;  even  now,  after  I  played 
fast  and  loose  with  my  treasure,  and  seemed  to  lose  it  utterly. 
I  hope  I  am  not  glad  of  poor  Eeginald's  death  ;  he  was  always 
very  good  to  me,  you  know,  in  his  way ;  and  I  was  not  at  all 
good  to  him  in  my  way ;  but  I  can't  help  being  happy  even 
now,  before  the  blackness  has  worn  off  my  first  mourning.  It 
seems  dreadful  for  a  woman  in  widow's  weeds  to  be  so  happy 
and  planning  a  new  life;  but  it  is  only  going  backwards.  O, 
Malcolm,  why  were  you  so  hard  upon  me  that  day  ?  Think 
how  many  years  of  happiness  we  have  lost!" 

He  was  sitting  on  the  ground  by  the  side  of  her  heaped-up 
pillows,  but  with  his  back  almost  turned  upon  her  bed,  his  eyes 
looking  seaward,  haggard  and  tearless. 

"  You  might  as  well  answer  me,  Malcolm.  But  I  suppose 
you  do  think  me  very  wicked ;  only  remember  it  was  you  who 
first  spoke  of  our  new  life  together." 

"  My  darling,  can  I  do  anything  but  love  you  to  distrac- 
tion ?  "  he  said  in  utter  helplessness.  The  hour  would  come,  alas 
too  soon,  in  which  he  must  tell  her  the  bitter  truth ;  that  on 
earth  there  was  no  such  future  for  those  two  as  the  future  she 
dreamed  of;  that  her  pilgrimage  must  end  untimely,  leaving 
liim  to  tread  his  darkened  path  alone,  verily  a  stranger  and  a 
pilgrim,  with  no  abiding  city,  with  nothing  but  the  promise  of 
jL  home  on  the  farther  shore  of  Death's  chill  river. 

Would  he  meet  her  in  that  distant  land  ?  Yes,  with  all  liis 
heart  and  mind  he  beUeved  in  such  a  meeting.  That  he  should 
see  her  as  he  saw  her  to-day,  yet  more  lovely ;  that  he  would 
enter  upon  a  new  life,  reunited  with  all  he  had  loved  on  earth, 
united  by  a  more  spiritual  communion,  held  together  in  a 
heavenly  bondage,  as  fellow-subjects  and  servants  of  his  Master. 
But  even  with  this  assurance  it  was  liard  to  part;  man's  earth  ■ 
born  nature  clung  to  the  hope  of  earthly  bliss— to  keep  her  with 
him  here,  now  for  a  few  years.  The  clialice  of  eternal  bliss  waa 
hardly  sweet  enough  to  set  against  the  bitterness  of  this  pre- 
sent loss. 


Strangers  and  Pilp'ims.  HOi 

He  must  tell  her,  and  very  soon.  They  had  ofteu  talked 
together  of  serious  things  during  these  summer  days  by  the 
sea — talked  long  and  earnestly;  and  Elizabeth's  mind,  which 
had  once  been  so  careless  of  great  subjects,  had  assumed  a 
gentle  gravity ;  a  spirituality  that  tilled  her  lover  with  thank- 
fulness and  joy.  But  pure  as  he  knew  her  soul  to  be,  almost 
thikllike  in  her  unquestioning  faith,  full  of  penitence  for  the 
Jianifold  errors  of  her  short  life,  he  dared  not  leave  her  in  igno- 
mnce  of  the  swift-coming  change;  dared  not  let  her  slip  out  of 
life  unawares  like  an  infant  that  dies  in  its  mother's  arms.  _ 

Should  he  tell  her  now;  here  in  this  sweet  sunny  loneliness, 
by  this  untroubled  sea,  calm  as  that  sea  of  glass  before  the 
great  white  throne  ?  The  hot  passionate  tears  welled  up  to  his 
eyes  at  the  very  thought.  How  should  he  shajoe  the  words  thac 
should  break  her  happy  dream  ? 

*'  Malcolm,  what  makes  you  so  quiet  this  afternoon?"  she 
asked,  lifting  herself  a  little  on  her  juUows,  in  the  endeavour  to 
see  his  face,  which  he  still  kept  steadily  towards  the  sea.  "  Are 
you  beginning  to  change  your  miud  about  me  ?  Are  you  sorry 
you  promised  to  take  me  abroad  with  you,  to  make  me  a  kind 
of  junior  partner  in  your  work  ?  You  used  to  talk  of  our 
future  with  such  enthusiasm,  and  now  it  is  only  I  who  go 
babbling  on;  and  you  sit  silent  staring  at  the  sea-gulls,  till  I 
am  startled  all  at  once  by  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  in  the 
utter  stillness.  Have  you  changed  your  mind,  Malcolm  ?  Don't 
be  afraid  to  tell  me  the  truth ;  because  I  love  you  far  too  well 
to  be  a  hindrance  to  you.  Perhaps  you  have  reflected,  and 
have  begun  to  think  it  would  be  troublesome  to  have  a  wifa 
with  you  in  your  new  mission." 

"  My  dearest,"  he  said,  turning  to  her  at  last  and  holding  her 
in  his  arms,  her  tired  head  lying  upon  his  shoulder,  "  my 
dearest,  I  never  cherished  so  sweet  a  hope  as  the  hope  of  spend- 
ing all  my  future  life  with  you;  but  God  seldom  gives  a  man 
■»  that  very  blessing  he  longs  for  above  all  other  things.  It  may 
be  that  it  is  not  well  for  a  man  to  say,  '  U])on  that  one  object 
I  set  all  my  earthly  hope.'  Our  life  here  is  only  a  journey  ;  we 
have  no  right  to  desire  it  should  be  a  paradise;  it  is  not  an  inn, 
out  a  hospital.  Darling,  God  has  been  very  good  to  us  in 
uniting  us  like  this,  even  for  a  little  while." 

"  For  a  Little  while ! "  she  cried,  with  a  frightened  look 
"  Then  you  do  mean  to  leave  me ! " 

"  Never,  dear  love.     I  will  never  leave  you." 

"  Why  do  you  frighten  me,  then,  by  talking  like  that?  "Why 
do  you  let  me  build  upon  our  future,  till  I  can  almost  see  the 
tropical  trees  and  flowers,  and  the  very  house  we  are  to  live 
in,  and  then  say  that  we  are  only  to  be  together  for  a  Uttle 
while?" 


392  Strangers  and  Pilf/rims. 

"  If  you  were  to  be  called  away,  Elizabeth,  to  a  brighter 
world  than  that  you  dream  of,  leaving  me  to  finish  my  pilgrim- 
age alone?  It  has  been  too  sweet  a  dream,  dearest.  I  gave 
my  life  to  labour,  and  not  to  such  supreme  happiness;  and 
now,  they  tell  me,  I  am  not  to  take  you  with  me  yonder.  I  am 
to  have  no  such  sweet  companionship ;  only  the  memory  of  your 
love,  and  bitter  lifelong  regret." 

At  this  he  broke  down  utterly,  and  could  speak  no  furt  ler 
word ;  but  still  strove  desperately  to  stifle  his  sobs,  to  hide  hig 
agony  from  those  fond  questioning  eyes. 

"  You  mean  that  I  am  going  to  die,"  she  said  very  slowly,  ' 
a  curious  wondering  tone  ;  "  the  doctors  have  told  you  that.  O 
Malcolm,  I  am  so  sorry  for  you;  and  for  myself,  too.  We 
should  have  been  so  hapjiy ;  for  I  think  I  am  cured  of  all  my 
old  faults,  and  should  have  gone  on  growing  better  for  your 
sake.  And  I  meant  to  be  very  good,  Malcolm — never  to  be  tired 
of  trying  to  do  good — so  that  some  day  you  might  have  been 
almost  proud  of  me;  might  have  looked  back  u]ion  this  time 
and  said,  '  After  all,  I  did  not  do  an  utterly  foolish  thing  in 
letting  her  love  me.' " 

"  Might  have  been ;  **  "  should  have  been."  The  words  smote 
him  to  the  heart. 

"  O  my  love,"  he  cried,  "  live,  live  for  my  sake  !  Defy  your 
doctors,  and  get  well  for  my  sake !  We  will  not  accept  their 
doom.  They  have  been  false  prophets  before  now  ;  prove  them 
false  again.     Come  back  to  life  and  health,  for  my  sake !  " 

She  gave  a  little  feeble  sigh,  looking  at  him  pityingly  with 
the  too  brilliant  eyes. 

"No,"  she  said,  "lam  afraid  they  are  right  this  time;  J 
have  wondered  a  good  deal  to  find  that  getting  well  was  such  a 
painful  business.  I  am  afraid  they  are  right,  Malcolm;  and 
you  will  begin  your  new  mission  alone.  It  is  better,  perhaps, 
for  all  intents  and  purposes,  except  just  a  little  frivolous  happi- 
ness, which  you  can  do  without.  You  will  have  your  great 
work  still ;  God's  blessing,  and  the  praise  of  good  men.  What 
have  I  been  in  your  life?  " 

"  All  the  world  to  me,  darling ;  all  my  world  of  earthly  hope. 
Elizabeth,"  in  a  voice  that  trembled  ever  so  little,  "  I  hav  told 
you  this  because  I  thought  it  my  dut3^  It  was  not  right  that 
you  alone  should  be  ignorant  of  our  fears ;  that  if — if  that  last 
great  change  were  at  hand,  you  should  be  in  the  smallest  m  a- 
Bure  unprejiared  to  meet  it.  But  I  do  not  despair;  no,  darlin^ 
our  God  may  have  pity  upon  us  even  yet,  may  grant  our 
human  wishes,  and  give  us  a  few  short  years  to  spend  to- 
gether." 

"  Strangers  and  pilgrims,"  she  said  in  a  thoughtful  voice 
"  Pil'n-ims  who  hav(>  no  abiding  city.     T  was  very  foolish  to 


strangers  and  FUgrims.  393 

I  It  ink   80  much  of  our  new  life  iu  a  new  world.     The  world 
where  we  shall  meet  is  older  than  the  stars." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  Bnt  dead  !     Alls  done  with  :  wait  who  may, 
Watch  and  wear  and  wonder  who  will. 
0,  my  whole  life  that  ends  to-day  ! 

0,  my  soul's  sentence,  sounding  still  ; 
'  The  woman  is  dead,  that  was  none  of  his ; 
And  the  man,  that  was  none  of  hers,  may  go  ! ' " 

No  gloomy  forebodings,  no  selfish  repiniugs  ever  fell  from  the 
lips  of  Elizabeth  after  that  sad  day  by  the  sea.  A  gentle 
thoughtfulness,  a  sweet  serenity,  lent  a  mournful  charm  to  her 
manner,  and  spiritualised  her  beauty.  She  was  only  sorry  for 
him,  for  that  faithful  lover  from  whose  side  relentless  Death  too 
soon  must  call  her  away.  Her  own  regrets  had  been  of  the 
briefest.  These  few  summer  months  spent  wholly  with  Malcolm 
Forde,  in  so  perfect  and  complete  a  union,  held  enough  happi- 
ness for  a  common  lifetime. 

"  It  cannot  matter  very  much  if  one  spreads  one's  life  over 
years,  or  squanders  it  in  a  summer,"  she  said  with  her  old  smile, 
"  so  long  as  one  lives.  I  don't  supposfe  all  the  rest  of  Cleopatra's 
jewels  ever  gave  her  half  so  much  pleasure  as  that  one  pearl  she 
melted  in  vinegar.  And  if  I  had  been  with  you  for  twenty 
summers,  Malcolm,  could  we  ever  have  had  a  happier  one  than 
this  ?  " 

"  We  have  been  very  happy,  darling.  And  if  God  spares 
you  we  may  have  many  another  summer  as  sweet  as  this." 

"  If !  But  you  know  that  will  not  be.  O  Malcolm,  don't 
try  to  deceive  me  with  false  hopes,  for  fear  you  should  end 
by  deceiving  yourself.  Let  us  make  the  best  of  our  brief  span, 
without  a  thought  beyond  the  pi-esent,  except  such  thoughta 
as  you  will  teach  me — my  education  for  heaven." 

The  time  came — alas,  how  swiftly ! — when  it  would  have 
been  too  bitter  a  mockery  to  speak  of  earthly  hope,  when  these 
two— living  to  themselves  alone,  as  if  unconscious  of  an  ex- 
ternal world — and  those  about  them,  knew  that  the  end  waa 
very  near.  The  shadow  hovered  ever  at  her  side.  At  any 
moment,  like  a  sudden  cloud  that  drifts  across  the  sunlight. 
Death's  mystic  veil  might  fall  upon  the  face  Malcolm  Forde 
loved,  and  leave  them  side  by  side,  yet  worlds  asunder. 


394  Strangers  and  Pilgrims. 

She  was  very  patient,  enduring  pain  and  weakness  with  a 
gentle  heroism  that  touched  all  around  her. 

"  It  IS  not  much  to  suffer  pain,"  she  said  one  day,  when  Mal- 
colm had  praised  her  patience,  "  lying  here,  in  the  air  and  sun- 
shine, with  my  hand  in  yours,  aftfr — after  what  I  suffered  last 
winter,  in  silence  and  solitude,  with  cruel  jailers  who  dragged 
me  about  with  their  rough  Lands,  and  with  my  mind  full  of 
confused  thoughts  of  you,  thinking  you  were  near  me,  that 
in  the  next  moment  you  would  appear  and  rescue  me,  and 
yet  with  a  half  consciousness  of  that  being  only  a  dream,  and 
3'ou  far  away.  It  seems  very  little  to  bear,  this  labouring 
breath  and  this  hacking  cough,  after  that." 

All  his  life  was  given  up  to  her  service,  reading  to  her, 
talking  to  her,  watching  her  fitful  slumbers;  for  as  she  grew 
weaker  her  nights  became  still  more  wakeful,  and  she  dozed 
at  intervals  through  the  day.  All  his  reading  was  from  one 
inspired  volume ;  he  had  offered  to  read  other  things,  lest  she 
should  weary  of  those  divine  pages,  but  she  refused. 

"I  was  not  always  religiously  disposed,"  she  said;  "but 
in  my  most  degenerate  days  I  always  felt  the  sublimity  of  the 
Bible." 

At  her  special  request  he  read  her  all  the  epistles  of  St. 
Paul,  lingering  upon  j^articular  chapters;  she,  in  her  stronger 
moments,  questioning  him  earnestly  about  the  great  apostle. 

"  Do  you  know  why  my  mind  dwells  so  much  upon  St.  Paul  ?" 
she  asked  him  one  day. 

"  There  are  a  hundred  reasons  for  your  admiration  of  one  who 
was  only  second  to  his  Divine  Master." 

"Tes,  I  have  always  appreciated  his  greatness  in  thought 
and  deed ;  only  there  was  another  reason  for  my  admiration — 
his  liken-ess  to  you." 

"  Elizabeth  !"  with  a  warning  look,  an  old  look  which  she  re- 
membered in  the  Hawleigh  days,  when  his  worshippers  had 
all  confessed  to  being  more  or  less  afraid  of  him. 

"Is  it  wrong  to  make  such  a  comparison?  After  all,  you 
know,  St.  Paul  was  a  human  being  before  he  was  a  saint.  His 
fearlessness,  his  untiring  energy,  his  exultant  spirit,  so  strong 
in  direst  extremity,  so  great  in  the  hour  of  peril,  all  remind  mf 
of  you — or  of  what  you  seemed  to  me  at  Hawleigh.  And  yoi 
will  go  on  in  the  same  road,  Malcolm,  when  I  am  no  longer  a 
stumbling-block  and  a  hindrance  in  yoTir  way.  You  will  go 
on,  rejoicing  through  good  and  evil,  with  the  great  end  always 
Defore  you,  like  that  first  apostle  of  the  Gentiles,  whose  strong 
right  arm  broke  down  the  walls  of  heathendom  And  I — if 
there  were  any  thought  or  feeling  in  the  grave — should  be  so 
proud  of  having  once  been  loved  by  you  !" 

"  Malcolm,  I  have  a  good  deal  of  money,  have  I  not?  "  she 


Slrangers  and  Pilgrima,  -'05 

asked  him  one  day.  "  Aunt  Chcvonix  told  rac  I  was  left  very 
•wi'll  otf,  altliougli  Lord  Paulyn  died  without  a  will.  I  was  to 
have  a  third  of  his  personal  property,  or  eomething  like 
that." 

"  Yes,  dearest." 

"  And  does  that  come  to  very  much  ?" 

"About  seventy  thousand  pounds." 

"  Seventy  thousand !"  she  repeated,  opening  her  eyes  very 
wide;  "and  to  think  how  poor  papa  used  to  grumble  about 
writing  a  cheque  for  four  or  five  jDOunds.  I  wish  I  could  have 
had  a  little  of  my  seventy  thousand  advanced  to  me  then. 
Ought  I  not  to  make  a  will,  Malcolm  p" 

"  It  seems  to  me  hardly  necessary.  Your  sisters  are  your 
natural  heirs,  and  they  are  the  only  people  who  would  in- 
herit." 

"  They  would  have  all  my  money,  then  ?" 

"  Among  them — j^es." 

She  made  no  farther  inquiries,  and  he  was  glad  to  change 
the  drift  of  their  talk;  but  when  he  came  at  his  usual  hour 
next  morning,  he  met  a  little  man  in  black,  attended  by  an  over- 
grown youth  with  a  blue  bag,  on  the  doorstep,  and  on  the  point 
of  departing. 

"  Congratulate  me  on  my  business-like  habits,  IMalcolm," 
Elizabeth  said,  smiling  at  him  from  her  sofa  by  the  window ;  "  I 
have  just  made  my  will." 

"  My  dearest,  why  trouble  yourself  to  do  that  when  we  had 
already  settled  that  no  will  was  necessary  ?"  he  said,  seating 
himself  in  the  chair  beside  her  pillows,  a  chair  which  was  kept 
eacred  to  his  use,  the  sisters  yielding  him  the  right  to  be 
iearesttoher  always  at  this  time. 

"  I  had  not  settled  anything  of  the  kind.  Seventy  thousand 
would  have  been  a  great  deal  too  much  for  my  sisters ;  it 
would  have  turned  their  heads.  I  have  left  them  thirty  thou- 
sand in — what  do  you  call  those  things  ? — Consols ;  a  sure  three 
hundred  a  year  for  each  of  them,  the  lawyer  says;  and  1  have 
left  five  thousand  to  Hilda  Disney,  whom  I  always  detested,  but 
who  has  next  to  nothing  of  her  own,  poor  creature.  And  the 
•est  I  have  left  to  you — for  your  mission,  JMalcolm." 

He  bent  down  to  kiss  the  pale  forehead,  but  words  were  slow 
to  come.  "Let  this  be  as  you  wish,  dearest,"  he  said  at  last; 
"  I  need  no  such  remembrance  of  you,  but  it  will  be  my  prwidest 
labour  to  raise  a  fitting  memorial  of  your  love.  In  every  one 
of  those  islands  I  have  told  you  about — God  granting  nie  life 
to  complete  the  task — there  shall  be  an  English  church  dedi- 
cated to  St  Elizabeth.  Your  name  shall  sound  sweet  in  the  eara 
of  my  proselytes  at  the  farther  end  of  the  world." 

The  end  came  soon  after  this.    A  sultry  twilight,  faint  stars 


396  Stra'dgers  and  Pilgriins. 

far  apart  in  a  cloudlesa  opal  sky — the  last  splendour  of  the 
sunset  fading  slowly  along  the  edge  of  the  western  sea-line. 

She  was  lying  in  her  favourite  spot  by  the  open  window,  her 
sisters  grouped  at  one  end  of  the  sofa,  Slalcolin  in  his  place  at 
the  other,  his  strong  arm  supporting  her,  his  shoulder  the  pillow 
lor  her  tired  head. 

"  Malcolm,  do  you  remember  the  day  of  our  picnic  at  Law- 
borough  Beeches  ?     Centuries  ago,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Have  I  ever  forgotten  any  day  or  hour  we  spent  together  ? 
Yes,  dear,  I  remember  perfectly." 

"  And  how  we  went  down  the  Tabor  in  that  big  clumsy  old 
boat,  and  you  told  me  the  story  of  your  first  love  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  remember." 

"You  could  never  have  guessed  what  a  wicked  creature  I 
was  that  day.  But  you  did  think  me  ill-tempered,  didn't 
you?" 

"  I  feared  I  had  grieved  or  offended  you." 

"  It  was  not  temper,  or  grief,  or  anything  of  the  kind ;  it 
was  sheer  wickedness — wicked  jealousy  of  that  good  girl  who 
died.  I  envied  her,  Malcolm — envied  her  the  joy  of  dying  in 
your  arms." 

No  answer,  save  a  passionate  kiss  on  the  cold  forehead. 

"  I  did  not  think  it  would  be  my  turn  one  day,"  she  went 
on  slowly,  looking  up  at  him  with  those  lovely  eyes  clouded 
by  death's  awful  shadow, — "  I  did  not  think  that  these  dear 
arms  would  hold  me  too  in  life's  last  hour;  that  the  last 
earthly  sight  my  fading  eyes  should  see  would  be  the  eyes  I 
love.  No,  ]\ralcolra,  no;  not  with  that  look  of  pain!  I  am 
quite  happy." 


THE   END. 


WILLIAM  KlUER  AXD  SON,  PRINTEUS.  LO.NUO.V. 


DATE  DUE 

CAVUORD 

PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 

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